I am just in from visiting the Adam’s show room to inspect lots consigned for their upcoming “at home” auction. What a delight. Am I going to buy anything? Nope, but maybe next time.
In fact, I went to quite a few house auctions last year. Since you ask, I didn’t actually buy anything but I enjoyed the experience. There’s nothing as good as poking around someone else’s house.
I am actively looking for a new dining room table having, with great reluctance, taken the one from my parents’ house in Cork which I never liked – a reproduction number with Queen Anne legs. However, a table in our dining room has improved it considerably and made it much more used so, as a concept, I welcome it. I just need a better table.
I have spent the past week clearing out the youngest child’s bedroom. All his stuff is now in his sister’s room. He currently has the box room and given that she has, alas, definitively moved out, if makes sense to move him to her double room. As part of this we are going to do up the box room a bit so her stuff is still in her old room. It’s horrific. I tell you this as I am keeping an eye out for a nice small desk for her as part of the move and saw a couple of possible candidates in my inspection at Adam’s. Though honestly clearing out the room made me mildly reluctant to ever bring anything into the house again. The whole thing took a lot out of me as I dug through the dusty Schliemann layers and sneezed through the process but it is done. Now to pin down the painter. I digress.
This whole house contents auction adventuring is not without its drawbacks. We went to inspect a house in the suburbs over the summer. The whole thing was basically a disaster. We spent two hours on the hottest day of the year trying to get there by the suburban rail line. There was some kind of fault and we ended up sheltering from the sun under a tiny canopy on a blistering platform. As I face into my 60th consecutive day of rain now, it’s hard to remember how unpleasant it was but I retain a feeling of mild rage which makes me think that I didn’t like it.
On the way home I went for a swim in Seapoint. This is quite the urban experience. When I was growing up in Cork, beaches were in the middle of nowhere and tennis courts were near the river surrounded by foliage. I have become more accustomed to Dublin where tennis courts can be right by the road or the train line and access to the sea is often via concrete. It’s hard to say Seapoint was at its best that day. It was very warm and it was full of people. Mr. Waffle declining the swimming opportunity went gloomily to sit on the ground beside a group of teenage boys who were playing loud music. They stopped him and pointed out that he was about to sit on dog poo and we were both suitably grateful and felt bad about our (mercifully silent) judgment of their loud music. I told a friend from Seapoint about this rather unsatisfactory experience. “I can only apologise,” said she, “if it’s any comfort my mother was flashed on the way to the beach the other day.” How would that be any comfort?
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