I am always surprised by just how many people read this blog. On the whole I receive positive comments but sometimes criticism. The most common 'complaint' is about my lifestyle. About my drinking. People have been nagging me about that since 1977. It's a difficult one because it would be very easy to wax lyrical 'I spent the evening listening to Brahms before retiring at 10pm with a Horlicks'. But that would be bollocks. I don't drink Horlicks, I drink Stella Artois (although in the past twelve hours that has been ably assisted by red wine and Baileys. Baileys - how gay is that?). I find it quite remarkable that anyone should think it best to gloss over the facts. This blog is about what actually happens: it's not fiction. I run an auction house, an honest decent (and I believe) amazing auction house. I deal in antiques. My world is not about bookwork, law, accountancy, or anything else that could be used by the Oxford Dictionary to describe the word boring. No, my world is about life and love and passion - passion for what I do and how I do it with an anecdote around every corner. Most work 9 til 5 Monday to Friday and get paid on the 28th of the month. That's wonderful if you give a shit about the mundane. But it's not for me. So, at 11.30 this (yesterday) morning, it just seemed like a good idea to 'take the rest of the day off'.
Daniel was in agreement. At least, he agreed to a bottle of Peroni as we perused the catalogue of an auction taking place at The Assembly House in Norwich. Ok, so not quite off duty. We needed a drink because walking into The Assembly House is a bit like walking into a care home for the elderly. I wanted to shout and to scream "BUT YOU ARE ALL STILL ALIVE" but simply ordered a house red instead. A large house red. That's when the trouble started.
We stayed for the auction and bought a few things and then, with another dealer, went to The Coach and Horses on Bethel Street where we walked through a time-warp and ordered scampi. I was described the other day as something in between a vicar and Lovejoy (!) and whilst (of course) that is absolute nonsense, I did feel a little bit like the latter over lunch - discussing antiques in a pub at lunchtime with a mate (and a former cast member). How decadent. Of course, decadence is a symbol of the Aesthetic Movement (according to Jimmy Wales). At this juncture I am inclined to make a point, the point of this posting which is that my working life is different to yours so don't judge it. I am working now in my dressing gown (whilst you are fast asleep or in a brothel somewhere - well at this time of night it would be one or the other). I work where I want, when I want, and with who I want. That freedom is so important to me. I am not shackled to a boss or a routine or a convention that tells me what I can and can't do. Don't misjudge my aim though, because that is as true as a longbowman at Agincourt. My aim is to run the best auction house, one that passes on to my children (or at least one of the six little urchins).
Many years ago it was commonplace to conduct business in pubs. My first 'proper' job, as a management trainee for the TSB Bank, being a case in point. On my first day, the manager took me and another newbie to lunch where we all proceeded to get completely and utterly pissed. I'm not advocating intoxication at work, simply pointing out that the demonisation of alcohol is akin to the Salem Witch Trials in colonial Massachusetts in 1692. It doesn't matter. Stop watching Emmerdale and get a life before it is too late.
Of course, over lunch and into the late afternoon we discussed our immediate plans, which include two house clearances and an antique fair (today, as I write). We will work forty hours in three days. Now that is bound to earn me a few brownie points from the middle classes. Not that I want any brownie points from the middle classes. If ever I involuntarily or accidentally ascend the stairway to receive accolade from 'Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells' I will promptly piss all over him (or her in a Cee Lo Green kinda way).
Which brings me to the end of this particular rant. Except to explain why we were attempting to break into my house. Simply, Beth had gone out and the builders (who are working on our house at the moment - keep up!) have my front door key. Impressively, Team Barnes managed to gain access to the 'upper levels' of the property (I gave Dan a leg-up) but to no avail. In fact, Daniel was lucky not to break his leg on the way down. Defeated but not despondant we accepted that the only course of action was to return from whence we came - The Buck in Thorpe St Andrew - until the inevitable phone call "Where are you?" and a less than welcome return home!
Hey, I could give it all up and get a desk job. Every girl wants a man who wears suit and a tie. He offers security and stability and a Pension Fund. And all I have to offer is a roller-coaster of triumph and disaster. But the beauty of both is what I live for, what I strive for. Because you cannot enjoy success unless you understand what it is to have nothing. So let's finish with a tune...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pc0mxOXbWIU
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