Extreme caution advised
It’s just as well I left Marie Kondo’s ‘The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organising’ on my bedside table before we left New Zealand.
For about six weeks solid at the end of last year we religiously followed Marie’s advice to free ourselves of clutter and unnecessary bits and pieces from our home (and our life). While it is not obvious to the naked eye, and in fact behind closed doors our cupboards still groan under the immense pressure of our collective gatherings, we did manage to liberate ourselves of hundreds of items. And when they were gone - after we had looked at each one, enjoyed a memory from it and literally thanked it out loud for its service but promised it was going to a place where it was better needed - we looked at our remaining precious things. Clothes were rolled, not folded. Socks were unbound and folded (apparently it upsets them when they are stored in a tight ball, shame on me as I had never taken the sock’s perspective) and items not in everyday use were stored away safely rather than gathering dust on our shelves. It was a cathartic process. For us and for our belongings.
So I could not possibly have returned home, put my head on my pillow for that first delicious jet-lag-laden sleep and in all good conscience closed my eyes knowing that Marie was just inches away disappointed in me in her sweet Japanese way. Afterall, Marie is so lovely that when she returns home from a hard day’s work she still has the grace to greet her treasured belongings out loud once the front door is closed behind her, she has emptied the contents of her handbag to their overnight positions, placed her heels in the cupboard and donned her house slippers.
I don’t think Marie has ever been to a French brocante. I imagine its so much easier to resist Hello Kitty and Manga comics than it is the worn patina of old and loved French items. But maybe that’s just me.
Marie’s potential disappointment can sometimes move to the recesses of my brain whilst strolling a brocante market. But then there is Jamie. Always the voice of reason and logic, reminding me that flying weight restrictions are a reality that cannot be cheated.
17 markets. That’s the grand total we have attended so far. And George, who helped count the tally today, can recall them all. I think I might need to lend him (or his future wife) Marie when he is older. The boy was born for market shopping.
Today we returned to L’Isle Sur La Sorgue for their weekly epic market, the second largest in France. Our first trip there was a week after we arrived when we were green and didn’t want to purchase as we weren’t sure what other goodies we would spot. With the clock ticking down fast a final dash to check for hidden treasures was made. So enthusiastic were we that we arrived as the stall holders were setting up and the only shoppers were the locals desperately trying to get their fruit and veges before half of Provence’s tourist population (including buses where droves of 70 and 80 year-olds literally disembarked in single file and dispersed) took over their usual sleepy hollow.
An old metal chandelier with flowers and leaves in pastel hues seemed like a sensible purchase. It would have to be completely re-wired, probably wouldn’t suit any of our rooms and most likely wouldn’t have fit in any of our bags to return home. But the vendor did reduce the price from 35 euros to 30, which more than made up for any potential wee nagging thoughts I had. And if I was truly desperate to have it even Marie wouldn’t have minded. She might have just made me take out 50 items as a bartering process. Marie doesn’t adhere to the one for one approach.
The stall with about fifty painted plates and bowls reminiscent of Wedgwood cabbage leaf crockery also called to me as I tried to walk past. The type of thing best owned and displayed in bulk. Still…perhaps it was a good idea.
Last week I purchased a late 1800s baby bonnet. I’m not entirely sure why. After 7 weeks of looking at vintage and antique linen I knew I couldn’t return home without something. I would be wracked with disappointment and regret. A bonnet seemed entirely sensible. Two minutes later I couldn’t look past a collection of old French military ribbons. They would look interesting lined up in a simple black frame. Before I knew it I owned a dozen. I placed them in my brocante collection, alongside the lead miniature military figures I found in Arles.
Today I added a collection of 5 ad hoc skittles (perfect for an under-cloche curation) and some old brass numbers to my pile. It was a display of extreme self discipline.
For the unhindered (and I have seen scores of Brits who have driven over so as to stuff their cars full to return home with) there are treasures to be found everywhere. I agonise on seeing oversized green bottles and jars. Two or three clustered on the floor or displayed on a shelf would bring me great happiness. Even one would deliver true happiness. Today I saw vintage French toy kitchen-ware, be still my beating heart. There was linen to grace the classiest of dinner parties. Cutlery to invoke a time of grandeur and etiquette. Marbled top tables to bring the dullest of outdoor settings to life. Collection upon collection. These stall holders know how to pull on the vulnerable shopper’s heartstrings and open their wallets. I would purchase anything if displayed in bulk - keys, door handles, vintage matchboxes and today’s favourite tiny glass jewellery boxes.
What a relief Marie and Jamie are in my life. Otherwise I might have to start trading clothes for treasures to meet our collective weight allowance. Now that’s fighting talk.
