Hooked by the thrill of the auction

I DO not look like Kate Moss. I do not live in London, hang out at the Ivy or put the GNP of a small African country up my nose.

I do not have a dodgy boyfriend and I am definitely, definitely, not a size 8.

I do, however, have an addiction.

Recently, on a day of low cloud and hard rain, I followed a goateed man down a dark alleyway. Neon winked from an adult store and the rain rattled on blank, stained doorways.

I blindly following my bearded companion as he ducked left, right, then disappeared through an open doorway. A wet cardboard sign hung limply outside — auction, it read.

Through the door and into the jammed, steaming throng I went, wending my way through banks of wardrobes, rickety stacks of china and various bits of glowing mahogany that lined almost every inch of the shabby room.

Seats were taken down and laid out in a semblance of rows and the great and the good kneeled down to pray before the auctioneer’s altar.

We started in little lots. Bric-a-brac (or rubbish, as it’s commonly known) was wheeled out as a warm-up to the main act, with items opening at €10 and quickly dropping.

Objets trouvé followed in short order and boxes of enthusiastic magpies, the nuggets among the dross, did not go unnoticed and were usually bid up by those in the know.

I had my first engagement over an old pine washstand, nonchalantly waving my catalogue, but running scared when it looked like making close to €200: too expensive, in my judgment.

Then I managed to snag myself a Chinese-style jardiniere, a plant pot my goateed companion described as ‘vile’. His recidivist nature saw him bidding on a bridle and bit, without ever having put the seat of his pants near a quadruped. His four-storey house groans with furniture, but he valiantly sallies forth again and again for more.

An hour later, with my seat getting more numb by the minute, impatience was not so much building up, as setting in.

I noticed the really savvy buyers had timed their lots perfectly: they came, bid, won and left. Items worth thousands of pounds were dispensed in the wink of an eye and the tap of a gavel.

A mahogany hunting table, for instance, which, to an ignoramus like me, looked very plain and rather old, made €8,000.

It could have made more, apparently, and, as an investment, would knock spots off the modern stuff. This is why auction buys are shrewd, you not only get stuff at ‘knock down’ rates, they also give you appreciation, something modern warehouse-shops can’t offer.

And for less than the price of a flat-pack, I got an old, waxed pine wardrobe with mirror, which needs a bit of glue here and a nail there — but it cost e110. And to me, it looks wonderful.

I did not, however, get the buzz on this one.

Lunchtime came and went and I turned to the goatee with my catalogue:

“You’ll have to bid for me,” I said.

His eyes lit up, took on a messianic glaze and a sly grin made it’s way across the fuzz:

“How much have you to spend?”

I told, he nodded, I disappeared. He got to play with my money, and he didn’t have to find room at home.

Everyone was happy.

I am now the proud owner of an old pine dresser with dimensions of 5’ by 7’ (€450), a wardrobe (see above), a part tea set (worthless but hey, red and white china for €7?) and the most ugly plant pot with the nicest name for €20

Delivery and extra charges brought the total up by about €130, but I’ve learned something — I’m 75% dealer at heart. And I’m hooked.