Confessions of a junk addict
A FRIEND, quite innocently, asked me to accompany her to an auction.
She is moving to a new house and needs some furniture.
I felt adrenaline pump through my body. An auction! I hadn’t been to one in nearly five years. I became almost light-headed at the thought of poking around musty, jammed sales rooms, pulling out creaky old drawers, opening woodworm-riddled wardrobes and rummaging through “job lot” boxes of mismatched ornaments and tea cups. My breath came in short bursts as I squeaked an enthusiastic, “Yes!”
However, I’m a recovering auction junkie and I knew this one trip could send me straight back
to my tat-acquiring ways. Although, my addiction doesn’t stop at auctions; charity shops, junk shops, jumble sales... anywhere there’s junk to be bought, I’ll be there, a pocket full of change and a chequebook ready and waiting to cut a deal.
It all started about 10 years ago when I bought a porcelain cake stand. I thought it was pretty and would look nice on the dining table, adorned with some fairy cakes and cucumber sandwiches. But one cake stand quickly led to another. I was obsessed: I’d stop my car in traffic to run into charity shops if I spotted one in the window. I’d drive the length and breadth of the county in search of country house sales where I’d convince myself I’d find the perfect stand that would complete my collection.
Despite having no room and no need for any more possessions, I just couldn’t stop buying. I’d visit charity shops almost every day and be the first in the queue for the church jumble sales. On Sundays I’d be up at 5am, desperate for pole position at the local car-boot sale.
Then I discovered the thrill of the auction room. It wasn’t just buying that had me enthralled – I became fixated with what any item went for. I’d make a note of every lot and the final figure it made to give me a “guide price” in case I ever needed to buy one.
Considering most of the sales I visited were heavy on cigarette cards and farm machinery, it was unlikely my notes would ever be referred to again.
I took several trips to the Parisian flea markets, walking for hours around endless stalls of bric-a-brac, returning with more china, small pieces of furniture and even church artefacts. My partner began to despair of me. China and ornaments were bad enough but when sideboards, blanket boxes and old chests started appearing from the auction rooms each week, he reached the end of his tether.
After one particularly successful auction I was waiting triumphantly in the car park with my purchases – a Victorian chest of drawers, a stuffed weasel and a “mixed lot” (a box of old rubbish, basically) – and he refused to take it home.
Eventually, after a heated exchange, he relented but as we loaded up and drove away, I made a life changing decision: I would buy my own estate car.
Once I had my own capacious Volvo, the world was my oyster. There was no car-boot sale, house clearance or junk shop that wasn’t fair game. Within weeks, my home was filled with even more furniture and I became a regular face in a local antique shop.
Coal scuttles, stuffed animals and Victorian photographs soon added to the list of things I “collected”. At one point I had four china cabinets in my home: two in the hall, one in the dining room and one in the bathroom.
MY partner eventually said it was the china cabinets or him. I refused to choose but sold one as a gesture of goodwill. After the birth of my son in 2003, I realised I had to downsize. I gave away a lot of china, sold some of my furniture and turned my back on car-boot sales and auctions.
To me, we now live fairly simply – although my partner and friends unanimously disagree. I have one china cabinet, housing two of my “shabby chic” tea sets and a pink vintage cake stand. My taxidermy collection is dotted around the house and my other remaining cake stands, mismatched dinner services, teapots and dainty teacups are on top of bookcases and in cupboards.
Although I’ve barely bought a thing for the past few years, I haven’t quite managed to refuse anything that has been offered to me free of charge – a revolving bookcase and a Davenport desk being some recent acquisitions. But now the mere mention of visiting an auction has stirred up all those old emotions: the thrill of the chase, the frenzy of the bidding war, the buzz when the hammer falls.
My partner is once again threatening to leave should I revert to my old ways. I’m trying to fight the urge but it’s hard. Especially as there’s a spare alcove in the bedroom that is a prime spot for something.
