Going, Going, Gone

When I was eleven I went on a school journey to somewhere in Devon. It was not exactly remote-there was a fruit machine arcade about half an hour's walk away- but compared to the mean streets of Islington it felt mighty rural. Right from the first there was a Carry-On Film flavour to this excursion. As we kissed our mothers goodbye and boarded the coach outside the school gates the first thing we saw was an aged sticker above the coach door bearing the legend Make love not war-(See driver for details.)

Once in Devon we did the things we didn't do at home., We went on an eleven mile walk gnawing shocking pink sticks of rock. We rode fat ponies that were practically comatose and had to be bribed with extra strong mints. Then we were taken to a cattle market at Newton Abbott where I witnessed my first auction. It was freezing cold and all around our little group were wisps of white steam from the nearby bakery which was dispensing wedges of fresh lardy cake. The auctioneer was squat and bilious. He spoke in a voice I'd never heard before: half deranged football commentary, half diesel engine and this was underscored by the alarming din of cows' groans. The auction itself was captivating. Two ancient horses for nineteen pounds each! I couldn't believe it. Always one for a bargain I put up a little hand to bid but my teacher swatted it down promptly, raising her eyes to the heavens.

I thought of this when, quite by chance, I found myself conducting an auction for the first time last night. Perched on a high stage with a hundred people gazing up at me, cursing the official fellow who at the eleventh hour had let us down, I suddenly realised that I don't know how to do an auction. I knew I had to say something but I had no idea how or where to begin. It wasn't just that I could muster no witty banter; I couldn't even remember the word for welcome. 'Hi there' I opened. Well, that would hardly do. I stared at the sea of expectant faces. Many seconds passed. There was an atomsphere of high anxiety building. The auction was in aid of my local branch of CRUSE, a bereavement counselling charity that I work for, that was hoping to generate enough cash to keep the show on the road for another year. I gripped my pieces of paper and announced the first lot tentatively. My sense of unease filtered through the audience. All the auctioneers I have ever met have been well over six foot six, I sadly recalled.

There were no beasts of burden on our list of items. We were offering things that money can't easily buy: a tea party with a famous children's author, a consultation with a top psychoanalyst, a weekend in someone's Paris flat, a dinner for twelve of your friends at my house, tea and some writing tuition with a bestselling novelist etc. etc. The first two lots sold a little disappointingly. I saw the charity's fortunes dwindling in my inexpert hands. The whole thing was like a very intense and humiliating nightmare that is quite plainly about something else. I said a small but heartfelt prayer. By this time the auditorium was flooded with sympathy. Would sympathy convert to reckless spending? Would someone please sweep me off the stage and take over? Could my life please swiftly (and tidily) end?

Then something amazing happened. Somehow I got into my stride. 'Who'll give me two hundred pounds for a consultation, colour and cut with Daniel Galvin himself, something money cant buy as Mr Galvin is booked up for the rest of his life?' Hands were shooting up, 'Two hundred, two twenty five, two fifty, three hundred. Three fifty? Any advance on three fifty? This is fun' I announced as an aside. It's not often I'm in a situation where charm and wit equal instant pledges of money, thank God. And then I knew everything would be fine as the bids started going through the roof. I had them in the palm of my hands. A friend paid so much for the session with the psychoanalyst that it was quite clear she was in grave need of it. At that moment I felt confident I could have sold snow to eskimos. The exhilaration was dazzling.

Afterwards, collapsed in a small heap with a big drink, I sat shaking for the best part of an hour. People came to congratulate me and said if I ever wanted a career change it'd be worth putting in a call to the Sotheby's people. I smiled graciously. 'Is there any lardy cake?' I asked.

susie@susieboyt.com