“I expect you have seen someone put a a lighted match to a bit of newspaper which is propped up in a grate against an unlit fire. And for a second nothing seems to have happened; and then you notice a tiny steak of flame creeping along the edge of the newspaper. It was like that now.”
― C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
While I'm on the running machine, my nerves zinging, my heart thudding, stealing shy glances at lovely Amazons, I watch Homes Under The Hammer -
Canny gaffers bid for damp end of terrace properties - the auctioneer wears a tight shiny suit - I reflect upon the magic of the auctioneer's gavel -
When we moved into Allchins Cottages, we visited the auction rooms in Maidstone - we bid for book shelves, two leather armchairs and a writing desk -
Aunt Ada had the cottage next to ours - she helped herself to neighbours' milk bottles - Norman lived the other side - he had money, he told us - with The Abbey - I can still see their kindly faces, Norman with his large wrinkled ears, Aunt Ada, like a tiny darting bird -
Wareham has a weekly farmers' auction - two stone lions guard the auction hall - they have stern, frozen, faces -
Between the lions there's an urn, extravagantly decorated, perhaps removed from the pediment of a shuttered grange - shy nereids form its handles - they bow their heads, flexing their supple scaly tails -
-
A notice reads - positively no dogs pushchairs or unruly children -
Inside the auction hall, I see swollen pumpkins, trays of farm eggs, the beautiful limp feathery shapes of dead grouse, hanging from a blue string -
I imagine a spark of yellow life, racing over the lions' manes - they'd leap, roaring, from their plinths, charge down Wareham High Street, scatter the bus stop queues -
The nereids would swim downriver, their long hair unbound - they'd wrap their tails around their lovers' legs, singing their ancient songs -
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