New York and Ironing Boards

I have been a bit lazy recently when it comes to writing my blog. Perhaps it's because not a lot has irritated me of late -- I haven't needed to vent my feelings with a good old rant into cyberspace. But since it appears I have a follower (yaaaa!!!) I will endeavour to pull my proverbial socks up.

Actually, in my defense, I'm not so much lazy as been occupied elsewhere. I've had a rare thing -- a holiday. I visited my favourite city, New York, with my son and husband, where we stayed in a beautiful, old hotel in the trendy Upper West Side. But was it the chic interior that thrilled me? Was it the fact that Mark Twain and other famed people stayed there that made my heart flutter? Perhaps it was the stylish gym that tickled my fancy?

No. It was the fact that our room had...drum roll...an iron and ironing board.

When your luggage arrives on the airport carousel looking as if it's been chucked out the airplane at 35,000 feet -- trust me -- you need an iron. Especially when we were due to be in the audience of the Good Morning America show the next morning. Sod's law, if we looked like three scrunched up packets of cheese and onion crisps, the camera would seek us out.

So, while the rest of my family hung out of the bedroom window ooohing and aaahing over the Big Apple, I was happily bashing away on the ironing board. I guess it's true. You can take the girl out of the cleaning cupboard but you can't take the cleaning cupboard out of the girl.

Emporium

Emporium - such a delicious word. It's a medieval latin word that comes from the Greek word 'emporos' meaning a merchant selling a wide variety of goods. But it has the ability to conjure up a mental image of shelves, stalls and nooks and crannies crammed with rich colour and shiny, sparkly things. The scent of vanilla, cinnamon, lavender and sandalwood permeating the air. A feast for the senses.

It perfectly sums up the Saturday market I attend each month. Today, an ambrosial smell of cinnamon and lavender wafted over from the next stall. Across the way the sweet smell of wood. Stalls crammed with colourful jewellery, cards, paintings, toys, books, delightful knicknacks and vintage clothes.

This is why I want to hang up my Marigolds. This market, these people, fill me with enthusiasm and zeal. And oh, how I do wish for that day when I can cheerfully tell my customers that this Mrs Mop is no more and oh, how I will have to refrain from telling my most trying of customers that I know a perfect place where they can place their mops!

Suddenly today, with new friends and new ideas - anything seems possible.

Cinderella

I now know how Cinderella felt when she was scrubbing those floors and her fat, ugly sisters were preening themselves - thinking they were sooo important. Okay. It's a folk story. And yes, I'm a bit older than she was -- all right, a fair bit older, but I do have nicer shoes! The point is, she might not be real, but her story - being down-trodden and disregarded - mirrors life for a lot of people. And last Monday, it was me.

I had to clean a holiday home. I usually do this for the owners every month and they are never there. But on Monday they were, because they were having their yearly visit to their des res in the country. So I appeared, all jolly and nice - because, to be fair, they are usually quite nice to me. Although we generally only communicate via email.

'What would you like me to do?' I asked (will I ever learn NOT to say that???)

'The floor.'

'What floor?'

'This floor.'

You mean. This crappy, old quarry tiled floor with the patches of concrete where the tiles are missing - floor. The floor you insist on keeping, even though you've modernised this entire 15th century cottage, because for some reason you think it's "authentic" and, by the way, I'll eat my apron if it dates back to the 15th century. (All right. I didn't say any of that!)

'I always wash it,' I said defensively. 'It just never looks any better.'

'Ah! But do you SCRUB it?'

And with that last sweeping question I was presented with a scrubbing brush. Nothing to kneel on. Just me, my bucket, brush and a vast, crappy, old quarry-tiled floor. And while I scrubbed, the lady of the house sat in her laminated-floored lounge while her husband did something everso important on his laptop. I even had to scrub around his feet - would you believe???

With my heart and dignity on the floor I scrubbed for two hours. Realising that as nice as I thought they were, they were putting me in my place. (Don't you forget, you cleaner woman, we are terribly posh, clever people who talk like the Queen and you are here to do our bidding.)

'I've done,' I said. 'I told you it wouldn't look any different.'

'Well. At least I know it's clean,' the lady said. 'Have you time to clean all the windows?'

She must have read my mind because she took one look at the scrubbing brush in my hand and rather nervously said. 'Oh. Perhaps next time, then.'

Cup Cakes & Candy

So happy to see I have a personal mention on the latest flea/craft market poster. Patti's cup cakes - there's no turning back now. Who knows perhaps this is the start of something big and my dream to hang up my Marigolds once and for all will really come true. One thing is for sure I've become totally obsessed with baking cakes. I cannot pass the baking aisle of any supermarket without pouring over all the little jars of amazing toppings for cakes. And colours! So many colours I can make my icing. There's a whole world of edible art out there and I'm ready to embrace it.

Another day, another flea market

After my disasterous attempt at selling at this particular flea market a few weeks ago, I decided to give it another chance and, armed with all the advice from other traders, turned up like a woman on a mission! I laid out the best table I possibly could. It was colourful, varied and, hopefully, appealing. They told me to do something to attract people to my stall and boy, did I do that. With the help of my artistic son, I produced some spectacular cupcakes plus a basket of Welsh cakes. They sold like...well...hotcakes. And as they sold, people bought other stuff, too. So it worked! It was such a good day. I made friends, I made money and I really enjoyed myself. This is sooo much better than cleaning. I spoke to the organizer afterwards and explained that although cup cakes are not strictly 'flea market' was it all right to do it again? She said: 'whatever draws people to your table is fine by me.'

Some of the other traders want the name changed to flea and craft market because there are a lot of craftsmen and artists there and one girl told me my cupcakes are 'edible art' - couldn't have put it better myself! My son has now opened up a flickr account for pictures of my creations and I've booked another table for two weeks time. The funny thing is, the fellow at the next table, who sold slate clocks, asked the organiser if he could do cakes next time and apparently he wasn't the only one. Guess they saw people at my table and decided to copy me. Only one thing for it - I'm going to have to up my game for next time!!!

Customers and cakes

It doesn't happen very often, trust me, it really doesn't. But once in awhile you meet a rare being. A nice customer. Yesterday I met that customer - two in fact. An elderly couple who asked me to spring clean their enormous seaside front property.

As I hauled my things up the stairs, the lady of the house asked if I wanted a cup of coffee before I started. I suggested it would be nice to have one about 10.30 a.m and at precisely that time she arrived with not just coffee but a china plate on which sat two slices of bara brith plastered with real butter, two Welsh cakes and several chocolate biscuits.

'Sit down dear', she said. 'Take a break.'

Now I'm used to getting steely glares from customers if I so much as stop to breathe. Time is their money. In fact, I half expect some of them to have a whip secreted in their cupboard just in I stop working. I have even been given a mug of coffee and expected to drink it while scrubbing a toilet at the same time. So this was a bit of a shock.

Of course the other thing is: I'm on a diet and have high cholesterol. I welcomed the break but shouldn't I refuse the mouth-watering delights she was waving under my nose? And then I thought how offended she might feel and couldn't I just hoover like a maniac and burn off the extra calories? And as for the trans-fat about to clog up my arteries, well, I just prayed they wouldn't. Not today.

'I can also make you lunch,' the lady suggested.

'Thanks, but I've brought my own,' I replied, thinking of the dry, ceiling-tile, rice cakes sitting in my plastic sandwich box. Yes, you're right Homer Simpson - where is the taste???

An hour later as I polished a sideboard within an inch of its life the lady reappeared. 'Just brought you a few things to put with your lunch,' she smiled, placing a carrier bag in front of me.

I delved inside. Fruit. Good. Apricot yogurt. Good. Two huge chocolate chip cookies. Bad.
Chocolate and cream dessert. Very bad.

'Eat them up,' she said. 'You need the calories.'

Like I need a hole in the head, I thought. But any will power I had left, and believe me there's never much to start with, shot out of the window and headed for the Irish sea. I succumbed.

After the feast. I worked my socks off and cleaned their property to perfection. Not just because it's what I do but because I hoped cleaning like I was on hyper-drive might justify why I'd eaten the contents of my customer's pantry.

But not often do I received such hospitality. Most people treat me with contempt. After all if you clean you must be thick and therefore not worthy of recognition. But just once in awhile you meet some one genuinely nice. And for that, I am grateful.

Boot Sales

Following my aborted attempt at the Flea Market in which (see previous blogs) I didn't sell very much much but came away with a useful piece of knowledge: How to fight off a would-be attacker. This was courtesy of the ex-bouncer running the next stall who wasn't selling much either and in his boredom decided to teach me some moves. I then decided to try my hand at boot sales.

And I found a whole new genre of customers: The rabid bargain hunters and the I'll-buy-any-piece-of-tat people. The latter was well-evidenced by the lady at the stall next to me, who had an tatty, old piece of rope for sale. 'Found it on the beach,' she giggled when she saw me staring at it with disbelief. But lo and behold, not two minutes later, I saw a woman walking away with the rope swung over her shoulder and my fellow stall holder with a grin on her face.

The rabid bargain hunters won't take any item at face value. If it's £1 they want it for 50p. If it's only 20p they want it for 5p. I've learnt to deal with them. Just price everything a lot higher. As long as they think they are beating you down they are happy.

And then we have 'boot divers' - horrible, professional booters who attack your car and try and buy things off you for peanuts so that they can put it back on their stall for a fat profit. The man on the stall next to me at one boot sale said he once drove into a field and couldn't understand what was wrong with his car, it was jumping all over the place. He looked over his shoulder to see the doors of his estate had been flung open and boot divers were into his stuff before he'd even had the chance to stop!

Anyway, I thoroughly enjoy booting and, save for the fact I've run out of things to sell, would happily do it every week. My home-made Welsh cakes sell like -- hot cakes. People actually come back for more. So I am thinking of branching into baking. I fancy seeing myself on a stall surrounded by cup cakes and bara briths. It may be a while before I hang up my Marigolds but at least I now see light at the end of the tunnel - albeit a very distance glimmer.