Pretty as a Picture By Christine Ashby
“Why do you keep all that bloody junk?”
He’s in a mood again. I can tell.
“It only collects dust,” he throws in.
I carry on with the dusting. It’s best to let him have his say when he’s in this sort of mood.
“Why don’t you chuck it out? Save yourself all that effort.”
He’s had his say. Now he’s sprawled out on the sofa and staring at The Racing Post with a frown on his face. So that’s it. He’s lost. Again.
I’ve finished dusting the china in the cabinet and now I’m standing in front of my favourite little treasure. It’s not much to look at, just a small oil painting in an old, fussy frame. I didn’t pay much for it, just a few pounds at a car boot sale. He laughed when I brought it home and told me I’d been had.
“They should have paid you to take it away!” he’d laughed loudly. “The staffie could do better than that,” he’d added, tickling the horrible black mutt under its ear. I had laughed with him. And at him, not that he’d noticed the difference. This little picture is special. The thought makes me tingle inside.
He’s snoring now, mouth open, eyes shut, no doubt hoping to dream up a great big win. He tells me I’ve got my head in the clouds but what about him? He spends our money on the horses or the dogs or whatever wager takes his fancy. All I do is buy a few little knick-knacks. He’s right. Most of it is junk but I like it. Where’s the harm? At least I have something to show for my money.
The point is this: he usually loses and mostly I win. If only he knew that most of these dust-gathering-bits-of-junk are worth a few bob. I have an eye, I’m told. I’ve had them valued so I know what I’ve got. All those evenings spent watching Antiques Roadshow have paid off. The really good ones are tucked away safely in plain sight but out of harm’s way. He can get a bit clumsy sometimes. Clumsy on purpose I think, so I’m not taking any chances. They are my little nest-egg. That thought always makes me smile.
But the real jewel of my collection of ‘junk’ is the painting. It was a fluke. The bloke was trying to get away before the stampede at the end of the sale and I was staring at the painting listening to my instinct.
“Yours for a fiver,” he suggested.
“Take four?” I asked. He nodded. We had a deal. I gave him the four pound coins from my pocket and walked home feeling pleased with myself. At that point I thought the little teapot I’d bought would cover my spending for the day. I really had no idea.
The frame cleaned up nicely and I did my best with the picture. It didn’t look too bad when my friend at the auctioneers made a suggestion that came as a surprise. I thought he must be joking but he wasn’t. So now I can see a rosy future. The big lump on the sofa is right: I should get rid of this lot. And I will one day soon. I’ve got it all arranged. The china will be sold locally so that my friend gets the agents fee. And this lovely little painting will be sold quietly in London and I’m told I can expect a five figure sum.
And then I’m gone too.
Copyright Christine Ashby 2012
He’s in a mood again. I can tell.
“It only collects dust,” he throws in.
I carry on with the dusting. It’s best to let him have his say when he’s in this sort of mood.
“Why don’t you chuck it out? Save yourself all that effort.”
He’s had his say. Now he’s sprawled out on the sofa and staring at The Racing Post with a frown on his face. So that’s it. He’s lost. Again.
I’ve finished dusting the china in the cabinet and now I’m standing in front of my favourite little treasure. It’s not much to look at, just a small oil painting in an old, fussy frame. I didn’t pay much for it, just a few pounds at a car boot sale. He laughed when I brought it home and told me I’d been had.
“They should have paid you to take it away!” he’d laughed loudly. “The staffie could do better than that,” he’d added, tickling the horrible black mutt under its ear. I had laughed with him. And at him, not that he’d noticed the difference. This little picture is special. The thought makes me tingle inside.
He’s snoring now, mouth open, eyes shut, no doubt hoping to dream up a great big win. He tells me I’ve got my head in the clouds but what about him? He spends our money on the horses or the dogs or whatever wager takes his fancy. All I do is buy a few little knick-knacks. He’s right. Most of it is junk but I like it. Where’s the harm? At least I have something to show for my money.
The point is this: he usually loses and mostly I win. If only he knew that most of these dust-gathering-bits-of-junk are worth a few bob. I have an eye, I’m told. I’ve had them valued so I know what I’ve got. All those evenings spent watching Antiques Roadshow have paid off. The really good ones are tucked away safely in plain sight but out of harm’s way. He can get a bit clumsy sometimes. Clumsy on purpose I think, so I’m not taking any chances. They are my little nest-egg. That thought always makes me smile.
But the real jewel of my collection of ‘junk’ is the painting. It was a fluke. The bloke was trying to get away before the stampede at the end of the sale and I was staring at the painting listening to my instinct.
“Yours for a fiver,” he suggested.
“Take four?” I asked. He nodded. We had a deal. I gave him the four pound coins from my pocket and walked home feeling pleased with myself. At that point I thought the little teapot I’d bought would cover my spending for the day. I really had no idea.
The frame cleaned up nicely and I did my best with the picture. It didn’t look too bad when my friend at the auctioneers made a suggestion that came as a surprise. I thought he must be joking but he wasn’t. So now I can see a rosy future. The big lump on the sofa is right: I should get rid of this lot. And I will one day soon. I’ve got it all arranged. The china will be sold locally so that my friend gets the agents fee. And this lovely little painting will be sold quietly in London and I’m told I can expect a five figure sum.
And then I’m gone too.
Copyright Christine Ashby 2012