Contemplating death

Right, we're off to Tal y Bont now, so listen. If we get killed, you'll need to know where to find the will and all the insurance paperwork. It's in the filing cabinet, in a folder labelled 'Death'. OK? And I don't want all of the antiques to just go to auction, because they'll just end up going for nothing if you do that. Do you want this mule chest, or should I leave it to Julian? And what about these Portmeirion honey pots? You might need a few spare honey pots one day, when I'm gone. And don't let Kirsty put hot mugs down on this mahogany davenport, d'you hear me?

Parking permit

Have you got my parking permit? Well, I want it back. Don't you go driving off with that parking permit, because I've already lost two already and you have to pay to get a replacement. It's a nightmare! Why they can't think of a better system, I don't know. It's enough to drive you up the wall. And I've got to take the dog to the kennels and get ready to leave for Tal y Bont by 3 o'clock and it's 10 o'clock now. Just get me a cup of tea and then I'll be able to focus...

Car boot sale

I was meant to be doing a car boot sale today, only it's too hot, so I couldn't possibly. It was too wet last week and now it's too hot. You can never get the right bloody weather to do a car boot sale. I've got a garage full of stuff that needs selling. Do you want these CDs? You never listen to them, you must have hundreds. I can get 50p each for these, you know. And what about these books? It doesn't matter if they're in German. There must be somebody at the Trentham Gardens car boot sale who'll want a copy of 'Also Sprach Zarathustra'. Who's it by? Nietzsche? Have a look on Ebay and see what Nietzsche books go for. I bet you I can get at least a pound for it... Vaughn! This dog's driving me up the wall! Will you put him outside? When will that turkey joint be done?

Kidneys in agony

Basil! I mean, Evie! I mean, Michael! I mean, Vaughn! Ooh, I can't even remember anyone's name today, I'm that ill. I shouldn't have gone to Dagfields yesterday, but they can't cope without me. And it was a long day, I tell you. I nearly crashed into the roundabout on the way back, I was that shattered.
I should be at the Peter Wilson auction rooms today, bidding on an assorted box of Edwardian kitchenalia, but I've caught another virus. I was up all night with a temperature and now my kidneys are murder. I should go to the GP, but I can't be bothered. They'll only tell me to stop smoking, as if that's got anything to do with my kidneys. And besides, I think it's genetic whether smoking kills you or not. I'm just not the type to die of smoking, I can tell.

Korean crisis

Aren't they terrible, these MPs and their expenses? If they were claiming for Moorcroft vases, I could understand it, but some of the common things they buy, it just goes to show they're a lower class of MP these days. I keep thinking I should become an MP, but my back's too bad and I just can't shake off this virus. And if I was an MP, I'd make sure I'd find out what these Koreans are doing, because they keep turning up at Dagfields, buying up all the porcelain and shipping it back to Korea. I said to some of them the other day that turned up, 'Where are you taking all of these Carltonware sandwich sets?' but they just pretended they didn't understand me. What do Koreans want with Carltonware sandwich sets, that's what I want to know...

Bank Holiday at Dagfields

Oh my God, Vaughn, I can't take this heat any more. It's been like a furnace all day at Dagfields. This is all because I never had a proper menopause. I keep saying to the doctor, 'For God's sake, keep me on the HRT, otherwise I'll just burn up, let alone what havoc it would play with my hips.' And as usual, there were only three of us on at Dagfields, because anyone with any sense refuses to work the Bank Holiday. But they were all pleased that I was there, because I managed to stop one of the customers from dying. She just came up to see if anyone would make her an offer for this portrait of the Queen Mother, and I could tell instantly that she wasn't well, because she was all out of breath and her skin was blue and clammy. So I said to her, 'Now, look. You're having a pulmonary oedema. You need to get to hospital. I'll give you £35 for the picture.' Which I thought was a good offer, but she still managed to get me down to 30 whilst the paramedics were stretchering her out. I said to the paramedics, 'Don't bother with the defibrilator. It's a pulmonary oedema, I'm telling you now. She just needs some diamorphine and a good slap on the back. I know about these things; my husband's a GP. I've got this lovely Suzie Cooper polka dot milk jug, by the way. I'd let it go for £15 if it's the kind of thing you paramedics are into...'
So now I've got this portrait of the Queen Mother. Don't let on, but I think it might be an early Lucian Freud. I'll ask Evie when she's back from playgroup...

Hard day at Dagfields

Vaughn! Vaughn! Help me in with this Arts and Crafts washstand. I've ruined my coccyx with too much standing. I must have walked ten miles at Dagfields. The other women don't understand. They said to me today, they said, 'Pat, can you go and open cabinet 47?' and I just thought, 'What did your last slave die of? You didn't live with an alcoholic for 20 years. Open cabinet 47 yourself.' And of course, I have to traipse right over to the other end of the building to open up bloody cabinet 47, and you know that the woman who's asked for it to be opened is never going to buy anything, cos she's just one of these timewasters who's come on a coach trip from Liverpool. So she says she's interested in this Japanese lacquered chopstick etui, and I just thought, what do you want with a Japanese lacquered chopstick etui? You look like more of a Breton faience kitchenware type of person to me. But anyway, it turns out she was a label-swapper. She stuck the label off one of those mugs in the shape of a chunk of Dairy Milk onto a Waterford rose bowl while I wasn't looking and got away with it at the check out. Must have done us out of £60 easily. Sickens you, doesn't it? Ooh, get me a Lambert and Butler for my nerves...

I shouldn't be expected to blog at my age. You don't know what it's like. I'm in agony with my pelvis. My symphysis pubis has completely had it. I can barely move, I tell you. Even sitting still is a torture. And it's Paul's birthday this week. I hope I'm not going to be expected to make a cake. If they think I'm going to make a cake, they've got another thing coming. I'd have to get margarine in. When am I going to find the time to get margarine? 

Peter Wilson Auctions

It's alright for you. You haven't been at the Peter Wilson Auction Rooms all day. I had to get there by 11.30, because I needed to get the Fegg Hayes Budgie Jug put into the Seventiesalia and Kitschiana sale before the deadline at 12 noon.  And I took Evie, cos she's into the antiques and she's so intelligent. I said to her before we went, 'How much do you think the Budgie Jug will go for?' and you know what she said? She said, 'Since beauty is, by its very nature, unquantifiable, then surely, if one thinks on a purely objective level, all art is intrinsically worthless.' Then she just finished off her Petit Filous and carried on watching her CBeebies. Ooh, she does make me laugh. The things she comes out with...

Look, you don't know what it's like, I'm telling you now. They only had 3 of us on today at Dagfields and there must have been 40 customers, easily. I wouldn't mind, but it's the reaching up to get things off the top shelves that I just can't do any more. And my tennis elbow's flaring up. I said to the doctor, I said, just give me another jab, because it's murder. Only, apparently, I've got the nerves of a ninety-year-old woman. My mother never had any trouble with her nerves, but that was probably all the butter she ate and she was a Taurus, so they're stronger, aren't they? Bullish, you see. I don't take after her. You do, but I don't. Detty takes after my mother. And Sinead. And Peter. And Kirsty. And Leo. And you do, a bit. Anyway, I've got a gammon in for dinner, so I'd better get that sorted out. Vaughn! Vaughn!! Will you put the gammon in? I can't, I'm on the internet...

Now, I've got this lovely piece of Fegg Hayes...

Will you try to find out for me what this Budgie Jug might be worth? It was made in Fegg Hayes, possibly as early as 1974, only I can't read the mark on the bottom, what with my eyes. Can you see what that says? It looks like 'Dave' to me, and if it's made by Dave, that means it's worth more than any of the other ones, because Dave once met Clarice Cliff at a finger buffet in Uttoxeter in 1958 and they discussed the use of turquoise pigments, it says in my Miller Antiques Guide. So this could be from Dave's Turquoise period, in which case, it's probably worth £75. I only paid £68 for it at auction, and I could see that this other woman really wanted it, but she normally only likes Gaudy Welsh, so I knew I'd beat her in the end. See if there's anything like it on Ebay, go on. No, I can't possibly go on Ebay now. My feet are killing me...

How do I get off this bloody thing?

Vaughn!  Vaughn! It won't let me stop blogging! Every time I click on that little red X, is says 'Do you want to log off?' Then there's three buttons that say Yes, No and Cancel. Three choices! I can't deal with three choices. I'm stressed out enough as it is. I've had Evie all day and now three choices. I've a good mind to just press Cancel and get rid of it all for ever, all of this internet. I mean, it's just so complicated. I've had sciatica since February. How are you supposed to focus on the internet with sciatica?

Even more shattered

Now, look, I want you to look on Ebay for me and find out how much this Crested Ware figurine of a peregrine falcon attacking a hedgehog is worth. Then I want you to put it on and sell it, but don't let it go for less than £2 because I bought it for £1.50, so I've got to make my profit. I can't look for it myself because I've lost the password and I'm too stressed out to phone up for a new one. They just put you through to someone in Glasgow or Bangladesh or somewhere like that and I just can't understand what they're saying. This man the other day just kept saying, 'Go to password settings, Go to password settings,' but what's that supposed to mean? I mean, I'm looking at the screen and it doesn't say 'password settings' anywhere. There's a picture of an exercise bike, but that's all I can see. And then he goes on about drop down menus. What do I want with drop down menus? I want to know what my password is, only he won't tell me that unless I can tell him what the fourth letter of my password is, only I could have sworn that my password was 'rheumatism', but that doesn't work and neither does 'shattered', so god knows what it is. I tell you, I've had enough of this internet. It's killing me, it really is. I can't possibly blog today. No, you do it for me. Let me just sit down for a bit. Is the kettle on?

Welcome to the wonderful World of Pat

I'm shattered. I can't possibly blog now. You don't know what it's like, having five viruses in one year. I told the doctor, I said, I'll just kill myself if I get another one. And the dog wants letting in and out about 50 times a day. I tell you it's murder. And I'm doing a full Bank Holiday shift at Dagfields. There's only going to be three of us on and I'll be up and down like a yoyo opening fetching things from the glass cabinets. I'm telling you now, you don't know what it's like... Ooh, make me a cup of tea, will you? I can't move...