Strange and serendipitous

Since we have an old and valued friend staying, we went out yesterday for a jolly. The goal was one of the better cheap antique shops, and, she being a historian, we went by a winding and circuitous route through various dark corners of the land; hidden glens presided over by the castles of obstinately Catholic lairds and Jacobite mauvais sujets. It was all looking quite beautiful, with a light dusting of snow on higher ground, just enough to reveal contours, very Eric Ravilious. We were, to some extent, on a mission. Godmama mentioned his desire to restyle the bedroom he uses when they’re here: the Lesbian toile de jouy curtains can stay, but he wants to move the bed through ninety degrees. This implies removing an item known as ‘the coon proof chest’ – an ordinary 19^th century pine chest, which was so called by a somewhat backwoods American grad student who lived with us more than twenty years ago, for which there will not be room. It is now painted grey, with the entwined Sapphists from the toile de jouy painted on the lid, but, though I can testify that in all that time, no raccoon has ever effected an entry, it will be banished to the attic. The other problem is that the bed is quite high, though it's a good bed in its way with a good mattress, and the coon proof chest is not, so one can’t read in bed comfortably. However, that meant we found ourselves in need of a suitable bedside table, and were looking out for one. Godpapa is also getting an update. He sleeps in the room full of angels with patchwork tartan curtains. There is a third patchwork tartan curtain, which once hung behind the fourposter and it occurred to us that if we got a very cheap headboard from B&Q or wherever, this could be covered with tartan patchwork, which (again) would make it comfier to read in bed, and would look rather nice, if a touch surreal. Leftover tartan could then become a pelmet. We were considering this, and I said that with all that tartan about, what the room, which does not at present have a hook on the back of the door for one’s dressing gown, needed was not a hook per se, but a pair of very small antlers, just prongs really. They’d have to be very small ones so as not to bang on the wall when you opened the door, but the effect would be striking, if not, perhaps, tasteful. Given that the room contains tartan curtains, six pictures of angels, four pictures of saints, and a Bugger’s Baroque mirror, the issue of taste did not in itself seem to present a problem, so the next question was whether anyone anywhere would have got around to mounting pathetic little antlers. Anyway, via Catholic castles, small and secret airfields, Pictish forts, and the varied pleasures of backwoods Aberdeenshire, we got ourselves to the antique shop. There we found ourselves completely surrounded by antlers of all shapes and sizes. The proprietors, they explained, had bought a collection. I siezed upon the smallest, in truth, just a pair of two-inch prongs; one really feels that the sportsperson in question shouldn’t have bothered. Then, further into the maze, there was a small, and amazingly cheap, oval tilt-top table. So that was all very good, but I was rummaging about, as one does, and found a slim, straight, piece of horn. Rather beautiful, and I thought it might be some kind of a ruler, but realised, on looking at it more closely, that it was a real shoe-horn, made of real horn, with quite a bit of age on it. An attractive object, nice to handle. Then I caught it in a slanting light, and realised that there was a name scratched on it in a neat copperplate hand: J. Keir Hardie. The  proprietrix threw it in free with the table and antlers; I’m afraid I didn’t mention the name. I’m rather pro Keir Hardie as a great supporter of votes for women, but we made a slightly surprising friend the other week, who’s a retired Glasgow Labout councillor, so I will probably give it to her in due course. Keir Hardie actually represented Merthyr Tydfil, but he was brought up in Glasgow. One wonders how it got up here, but of course it’s just the kind of thing people to keep as a memento.