Distressed furniture and the power of dreams

One of my pleasures is browsing in shops selling distressed furniture - I stroll in from the icy street, hands thrust into my tweed jacket, role playing a courteous buffer - if it's raining, I've got my collar turned up - there's a copy of The Guardian or Independent tucked under my arm -

I must confess that I have no real interest in home decoration, or even maintenance - Anne tells me this, often enough - I'd be happy living in a burrow, lined with books - I'd like a few exotic touches, however - perhaps a Persian rug, or a Turkish killim, rucked up before the log fire - some music, perhaps something delicate by Haiku Salut, playing on the lap top - there ought to be a spooky mezzotint upon the wall -

But when I look at old furniture - or at old ornaments, clocks, hat stands, rifle cases - I can feel myself beguiled - they are the flotsam of other lives, cast up by house clearances, auctions, car boot sales - it's all to do with the imagination, not with furnishing a room -

In Swanage, there's a shop called Smiths - I went there in March, with Anne and Penny - the first thing I saw was an ibex's head - I admired its curving horns, its astonished expression - I then saw a green lacquered writing desk - upon such a desk, I thought, a young scholar could peruse a grimoire -

I unlatched a rifle case - I peered into three antique demijohns - perhaps homunculi  had floated within those vessels of greenish glass - a suitcase rested upon a chest of drawers - a large black clock hung from the wall - I sidled down alleyways of wardrobes, hearing whispers, or faint songs -

I could have stayed there, opening drawers, discovering rare secrets, for many hours - but we had to leave - time was moving on -

Later, Penny served us tea, and wonderful slabs of fruit cake -