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YOU ARE A CARD
I’ve only come for one lot…
The turntable on my record player has started to make an odd scraping noise and is running at the wrong speed. It’s getting rather old and needs replacing, like some of the LPs I put on it. Yesterday, I put a Supertramp record on. I can’t tell you how horrible it sounded.
“That’s what you sound like every time you come back from an auction,” my wife quipped: “a stuck record.”
My whingeing is obviously becoming an issue. I shall try to not let it spill over onto these pages any more than necessary, but…
Over the last two weeks, I’ve bid at four auctions in the South-East and have acquired six lots with only one totally wasted outing. My total expenditure was £1,300. With a clear wind, I should get my money back in about three weeks. The profit will dribble in afterwards…
Auction number one netted me a couple of postcard albums on my top bid, which I didn’t expect to get. I had left an absentee bid to put my competitors off the scent. This was a satisfactory result.
The second auction had five lots I was prepared to bid on, although there was nothing of any great value. I managed to buy the three least valuable lots but when I went to pick them up found that some of the contents were missing. After some hunting with the porter, we located a couple of missing books and some ephemera, which had mysteriously migrated to another box. When I got home, I checked my purchases and found that the only card of any value in one of the other lots was missing. The following day, I went back to the auctioneers to pick up another purchase (a nest of tables and a cabinet that had only cost me £30). I complained about the missing card, but as it hadn’t been itemised and it was only my word for it I didn’t demand any compensation. I just gave them a hard time about their poor security.
I am currently scanning eBay for the missing card, which was quite distinctive and probably only worth £20 on a good day. Quite what I shall do if it turns up I haven’t yet decided.
Auction number three was somewhere I try to avoid as it is such a hotbed of dealers and I really went along just for the sport. Unfortunately, I couldn’t get in the car park. Cars and vans were everywhere: ditches, verges, bushes were full of them. Eventually, I found a space. As I entered the building, Tim Wonnacott walked past.
As I sat in the viewing room, loud squeals and cheers of delight emanated from the main room, where an auction was in progress. The Bargain Hunt circus was in town and apparently had brought 30 vehicles with it. People having fun in a saleroom can be a bit unnerving when perspiration and muttering under one’s breath is the norm. By the time the 16 postcard lots came up for grabs, there were already eight dealers in the room that I recognised and probably quite a few that I didn’t.
Mr A (who I have mentioned before and is blissfully unaware of the unwritten ‘one for me, one for you’ protocol) bought the first seven lots.
“When I started coming here 10 years ago, there were never more than two dealers in the room,” lamented one old dealer, who eventually departed, empty-handed.
“I’m only after one lot,” one of my chief adversaries told me.
I tried to work out which lot it could be and decided it was the only lot I thought I might have a chance of getting.
“I’d buy all 16 lots if the price was right,” I shrugged.
He looked rather shocked.
“Oh yes, of course, you do this for a living, don’t you?”
I looked around the room.
I knew them all. I knew which ones had fat pensions, wives who worked, who had a day job.
Yep, I thought, I’m the only mug here who needs to make a profit.
At that moment, Mr A got up and left to collect his seven purchases. I immediately stuck my hand up and got the lot I wanted. Afterwards, I realised my main adversary had not bought anything.
.
“I was adjusting my glasses,” he explained, “and I got the lots mixed up and missed it. Never mind: I’m off to Cornwall. Stuff is cheaper down there.”
I managed to buy one more lot – predominantly landfill – but it was priced accordingly.
Auction number four had twelve lots I was interested in, ten of which carried illustrations on the Internet and sounded OK but turned out to be total rubbish. The other two lots sounded like rubbish but were quite desirable. One of these carried an estimate of £80, but I valued it at £500 plus.
I arrived early.
There were no bona fide postcard dealers there, although one had tipped off a relative who I vaguely knew and who sold stuff on eBay.
“I’ve only come for the one lot,” he told me.
“You and everyone else,” I thought, but didn’t say.
I knew he didn’t have any money but I smelt a rat.
“What’s the commission for using credit cards?” I heard him ask at the desk.
The first eleven lots all sold for far more than they were worth – one lot I had valued at £130 sold for £420.
At last, the good lot came up. I sat myself down near the front. It was me against the book. At £700, I bowed out. I couldn’t see any profit left. The bidding carried on in the room. Eventually, the hammer fell at £1,300. I got up to leave.
My acquaintance was still standing where I’d left him. He looked slightly panic-stricken.
“Was that you bidding?” I asked.
“Whoops, I hope I don’t regret that…” he grinned weakly. With the premium and credit-card charge, he’ll have about £1,000 worth of regret, I thought.
“I might bid on a couple of cards myself when you’ve got them listed on eBay,” I said to console him.
“And you don’t have a record player to sell as well, do you?”
Tony Bamforth