Allotments and armchairs

Last month a small leather armchair sold for £19million. The twentieth century chair designed by Scottish-Irish Art Deco designer Eileen Gray was sold by Christie's for a record breaking, not to mention recession busting, sum. The crinkly muddy brown leather is framed by two ornate horns resulting in a menacing looking 'dragon's armchair' despite its' 24 inch height. Selling for six times its' original estimate, this affliction on all tasteful furniture, counted among its' previous owners the late fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent. Upholstered in natural hand antiqued water buffalo hide the sprung back is encased in Mongolian horsehair. One could politely describe it as an eccentric vintage piece – no doubt similar credentials to the new owner – but nineteen million pounds? Can you imagine adding such a museum piece to your insurance? They'd think you'd gone mad. Anyone who dared to sit on it would probably be taken outside and shot by the butler. Determined to obtain the fashionable heights of shabby chic, I opted for a stripped-down, budget version of Gray's masterpiece. The two miss-matching yellow pine chairs cost me a mere £20. Sally and I had hunted through Steptoe's yard and been victorious. Delighted with my buy and armed with a sander I began to peel away the high shine in order to carry-out my own DIY shabby chic. As the used-to-be varnish and dust floated into Sally's coffee I could see the potential already. Shabby chic, I have discovered, incorporates any badly painted (usually white) reclaimed wooden furniture which wouldn't look out of place in a French boudoir. These worn looking wardrobes, dressing tables and mirrors are like a Plain Jane in fancy dress. My bargain chairs are however destined for my kitchen and not the bedroom. Once I have defaced them with forget-me-knot blue paint cracked with a blow torch, they will be transformed into reputable shabby chic items. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Mole and his girlfriend were turning over the soil and portioning off his newly acquired allotment. After what seemed an eternity at number three on the waiting list he had finally got his own plot of land. I was busily relaying the types of vegetables planned for the allotment when Sally said: “It must be an age thing.” Sat outside happily sanding down the chairs whilst drinking tea, I queried “what, you mean allotments and armchairs?"