Week 63 - A Martini and Masterpiece

The dry Martini is the ultimate cocktail for me. I have a deep and historic relationship with the Black Russian. On transatlantic flights I take great comfort from a spicy Bloody Mary. I have been known to find a Whiskey Sour both nurturing and rewarding. Recently, I have been having a bit of a diversion with Daiquiris. I can also recall a special moment buddying up to a 'perfect' Manhattan. But in the end the alcoholic sonnet that is a dry Martini reels me back in.

The Martini has few ingredients, vodka or gin, blessed by a suggestion of vermouth, then added to with olive or lemon peel. But from this very precise and tight framework, all manner of variety can be created. My friend Carrie, a scion of the Kentshire dealing family in NY and a Masterpiece exhibitor, loves a Dirty Martini, one with a splash of brine from the olive jar. Ordering for her is predictable but she is very exacting about the balance, and many a cocktail has been returned to the bar with disappointment. In Japanese restaurants, you sometimes get a Saketini, which has a deceptive delicacy, as it seems so soft and gentle. Only when you try to stand up, does its full strength become apparent.

Allegedly the original Martini was made from Plymouth gin, and the cocktail is basically a way of drinking ice cold neat gin with a dash of something to soften the intensity. But that celebratory post-prohibition alcohol-fest belies the sophistication of a well-mixed Martini. Some bars have become legendary for them; in London, Dukes Hotel in Mayfair makes a fine classic Martini. It used to be a rule that the waiters would bring a maximum of two to any guest. Any more and you would be incapable, and worst of all unable, to appreciate the subtlety of the mixologist's art. I have broken that rule myself and all I can say is that the rule is best abided to..... It was a long story, I will tell you one day. Suffice to say, I am not crowned in glory at the end.

On Tuesday evening, I was seated with friends at a table on the newly refurbished 5th floor at Shoreditch house. Chris was drinking lager (a sort of health kick he is on at the moment) whilst Justin wanted something wintery, so we got him a Manhattan, which I think of as a winter Negroni, because of the whiskey. I decided to go for what I have dubbed a fussy Martini. That is one when you specify exactly all the ingredients. Stolichnaya Gold vodka, Noilly Prat vermouth, lemon twist (just the oil, not the peel), very very cold, and straight up. I waited for ages for my drink feeling parched and sad as the others talked and sipped. Eventually it came, the waiter saying he was sorry for the delay but he had been forced to make a slight change, as they had run out of Stoli gold. Oh no, I thought. And I lifted the glass gingerly and nervously to my lips. The slight and delicate aroma that captured my imagination as it rested for a microsecond below my nose augured delight, and the taste when it exploded in my mouth was one of joy, love, adoration and greed for more all rolled into one ecstatic flavour. I did not want to swallow, it was such a taste miracle. It won't be for everyone, in fact purists will abhor it, but for me my pleasure in the Martini has now passed onto another level. Stolichnaya Vanil was the unanticipated variation and I am a goner, I am a lost soul, I am going to run off into the sunset clutching these key ingredients to the perfect drink.

The week had begun with breakfast, joined by most of the Chairmen of the vetting committees at Masterpiece. The fair may be months away, but it is right round the corner in our minds. Vetting is crucial to the credibility of the fair. It is not a garnish, it is the main ingredient. For nearly two days, these chairmen, with their chosen teams, will independently and scrupulously examine and assess every object at the fair. 130 people will look at over 20,000 objects and give the visiting public confidence that what they are told an object is - can be relied on. We discussed over slightly miserable coffee and croissants the contentious issues, and consensus emerged. But most of all the spirit of collaborative scholarship became apparent. These 18 or so team leaders want to work together and supportively to realise a task for the buyer and, crucially, so that their peers will have respect for their process and scholarship.

The rain has continued and I have been soaked through cycling around London so often this week that my bedroom resembles a steaming laundry more than a place of rest. Mallett have been hosting a fantastic show of the photographer Harry Benson. He spent time with the Beatles and has photographed every president of the USA since Kennedy. Outside the shop are two massive posters. Arriving sodden and depressed it gives me a huge sense of relief to spot them, as soon as they hover into view, as I know I will be safe and dry for a while. Heading off with them behind me I pray that I will make it to my destination without too much water.

Spotting a gap, I dashed off to see Howard Walwyn in Kensington Church Street, and I arrived almost dry. He has a small elegant shop in which he has used bold shapes and colours to create a contemporary setting for fine, mainly late 17th and early 18th century English clocks. He is a colourful character, known as the professor, partly because of his academic approach and partly because of his mad flowing fair hair. We talked and discussed our trade friends and his stand at Masterpiece. I prepared to leave and discovered that I had left my wallet at the office. The rain was really coming down by then. An hour later I arrived at home with my wallet but wetter than I have ever been, and I include being in the sea or in the bath. I thought my bones were wet. I sat shivering in a towel by the radiator wondering how long this deluge would continue.

The peculiar thing is that between downpours the sun shines. The sky in brief interludes between hours and hours of rain is a fabulous almost warm blue. Punctuating the depressing gloom the most heartening brightness compensates, partially. I went to visit an old dealing friend James Millard. Stupidly and ignorantly I went to his old shop on the Fulham Road, where I was greeted with shocked disdain by the incumbents. Dover Street to Fulham Road is no distance at all, but I had to push on to his house in Richmond, a fair way to go playing rainfall roulette. But the gods were smiling and I got there and back with just the occasional half-hearted shower. James is part of an old school duo that have for many years scoured the USA and Canada repatriating English furniture and decoration. He lives in a fine large roomed Edwardian villa and he has just done the fashionable thing of digging out the basement. He has built a magnificent high ceiling subterranean gallery. Along with the internet he is ready for the next era of dealing. The room feels open and airy despite not being either. It has an almost James Bond lair feeling to it. He has traditional pieces but they look relevant and fresh in this environment. As I cycled back, still dry, I reflected that this was a powerful statement of optimism for a trading future.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 62 - Three Lunches and Water Everywhere

When travelling, the world can seem very small. A plane journey can throw one into the middle of anywhere in just a short while. London seems like the springboard from which anywhere can be reached. This week, the world appears very fragmented, though only locally. Rain keeps coming down in biblical proportions. This rain has been falling without respite for weeks and weeks. The streets are wet in every city, nation-wide rivers are bulging and bursting their banks, long forgotten deep wells have bubbled up and erupted with water. Any place where water is normally calm and passive, it is currently torrid and intense. Last week, in another stormy flare-up, the train station at Dawlish in South Devon was swept away and suddenly Cornwall was cut off from the rest of the country. In Somerset itself, beaches are littered with debris and the wind blows huge waves crashing against sea walls. All this effulgent natural brouhaha conjures up a myriad curious comparisons from history, novels and countries with more theatrical weather. On a train, despite delays and diversions and a rather charming slackening of ticket discipline, London is reached with a huge sigh of relief, as if a safe haven has been secured. Exhausted and overdue passengers drift out of the station heading for private and public transport feeling like they have survived; been through something. London may be wet, but it is quiet and safe and everything still works, with the minor extra frustration of a tube workers' strike.

In London work carries on as semi-normal. Certainly the profound and crucial ritual of lunch continues unabated. Sumosan in Albemarle St is a Japanese restaurant that serves a delicious and reasonably-priced set lunch. Japanese food is very scary, you can easily spend several hundred pounds on a fancy selection of rarefied sliced raw fish or equally often have a bargain meal in the same place. Sumosan manifests this exact dichotomy. Stick to the set menu and you can survive, go off-piste, or more correctly, a la carte, and you will require a second mortgage. I dined with Jorge and Andreas from Coll & Cortes, actual neighbours of the restaurant. Andreas used to be at Christie's and the thrill of being out of captivity and into the wild of dealing has given him a huge burst of energy. Sitting next to him is like sitting next to an unexploded bomb, he is so keen and enthusiastic. Jorge, who is a dapper European, has bright eyes and the ubiquitous semi-beard. He is the scion of a family of dealers, his father was and is one of the great dealers in decorative arts with a sixth sense for finding rare and unusual japanned pieces, made for his home country, Spain, and exported from England in the 18th century. Going through Vicente's files is like taking a tour through some of the great pieces that have been on the market in the last 30 years. Jorge has the drive and energy but has turned his attention to old master paintings, sculpture and works of art. He is based in London and he is pushing his business forward with unbelievable force. Lunch with these two left me inspired but exhausted. I ran back to the office to attend a PR meeting replete but fatigued. However, an hour or so later, having reviewed some of the excitements and novelty we have put in place for Masterpiece this year, my energies were topped right back up.

The next day, Nazy and I had the treat and privilege of visiting and having lunch at the Royal Hospital in the Great Hall. This magnificent panelled room is lined with oak tables and we sat at one near the end. Portraits look down and bedraggled flags hang from poles above; trophies of war and lists of the fallen compete for attention. On the table by the entrance, two enormous, black, boiled leather beer jugs or 'Jacks' sit importantly in solitary splendour. The food is not bad but it is more meaningful than that. It is comfortable food; food that neither challenges nor disgusts. Steamed pudding and warm custard enhance the end of the menu and everyone knows that they are going to be fine. We talk plans for this year and we conjecture about the future. The Hospital is in good shape itself with an ambitious plan underway for improvements and redevelopment throughout the grounds. Currently the paths and roads are all being upgraded along with the services hidden beneath the surface. We take a walk around Ranelagh Gardens, which is a wonderful hidden voluptuous pocket landscape beside the sober flat grounds that support our tent in June. In a few years' time, the place will be totally spick and span. The military officers that run the Hospital have given the place an air of concerted effort, like a military campaign in miniature and in peacetime. The in-pensioners are very well cared for both now and even more so in the future. In bold letters in Latin, the figure court proudly displays the royal founders of the hospital and their purpose for the care of those who have served this country in the armed forces. It is clearly a noble and rewarding work.

Image credit (http://www.flickr.com/photos/tehbus/sets/72157632135042981/with/8231817471/)

There is a dealer in Pimlico who used to work with me at Mallett called Tarquin Bilgen but it amuses me to dub him Tarquinius Maximus. He is tall and gangly and has an intense manner. He has created in his small corridor of a shop a selling machine of some potency. He has sold a few things to me and for me. I don't think I quite qualify as a good client but we get on well enough. He has the most charming manners and makes one feel both special and intelligent. I have made the habit of visiting twice a year for lunch. It is like going to a mental health spa. He does not drink so it is quite a reasonably priced treatment session. During each course he will admire and compliment ones innovation, pioneering spirit, previous and possible future achievements. This Friday was no exception. I had sold something that I had promised to him so I felt I owed him a special treat and I predicted I would get an especially large boost for my fragile confidence. I booked the Chinese restaurant Hunan in Pimlico Road. Discrete though the outside is, the interior is more so. You would never imagine that such a humble presentation should offer up such a feast. You do not see a menu, you simply point out any allergies you might have. After a brief pause, dishes begin to appear and two and a half hours later you are poured out onto the street to stagger off in search of exercise. Each dish is small and delicate. The balance between sweet and savoury and between meat and fish is totally harmonious and the only problem is the relentless progress of the dishes. I did get my emotional boost but Tarquinius was seriously distracted from his duty by the food, a lesson for next time.

Week 61 - NY-Miami-NY-London

 

The New York Winter Antiques Show is a bastion of the New York social scene and the season opener for the local art and antique trade. The East Side House Settlement - which gives residents of the South Bronx and surrounding communities access to quality education and technology training - is the beneficiary, and for 60 years funds have been channeled directly to the charity from the fair. It has, in many ways, established the worldwide principle that antique shows should, at least in part, benefit a charity. To balance the celebration of Mammon, there is a cheque written to help some less fortunate section of society. It is a comfortable exchange, as a good show will commercially benefit the dealers and perhaps give them a sense of a moral uplift as well; and of course, the charity is empowered to do more good work.

Here in New York, everyone is shivering. There have been a couple of fierce storms this winter and piles of grubby snow line the avenues; the wind howls and flurries of ice blow in your face. It is that really cruel cold that tries to steal your breath and each step takes you closer to understanding the travails of Shackleton or Scott. The coat-check at the show is doing brisk business as they charge $3 for each item they take in, and many visitors come with huge collections of winter clothes. Some visitors even end up handing over nearly $20 -the price of an entry ticket! I am mean, however, and have a large bag into which I cram all of my stuff; my coat, my hat, my gloves and my scarf are all unceremoniously squeezed in. The man taking the coats, who has a massive wad of cash in his hand, looks unimpressed by the $3 I part with for my enormously overstuffed and slightly compromised bag.

The show is a celebration of all artistic things American, from folk art through to fine furniture and paintings. There are dealers of international interest but they are a garnish for a show that is proud of its American focus. The format for shows at the Armory, the historic building on Park Avenue with its fabled Tiffany rooms, is always and unchangingly the same. With aisles that go from front to back, there is a cafe at the rear and a bar station in the middle. Shows are formulaic - though some make great play of having special booth designs or black or grey aisles, the net result is always the same. But a show is not about the frame, it is about the picture within it, and whilst some people may get muddled as to which show they are visiting, the objects and pictures in the booths are what they are here to admire and buy.

A number of Masterpiece exhibitors are here and a few potential ones too. The best time to visit is in the last couple of hours when there is a daily unofficial unstructured cocktail party, the visitors are few and the dealers gather to chat and drink. We dubbed it 'Sea Breeze o'clock' when we were doing the show in San Francisco. After a long day standing, your knees and calves aching, a large glass of cranberry and grapefruit juice enhanced by a generous pouring of vodka can seem a life-saving concoction.

Sea Breeze o'clock at the winter show brings a smile to drawn faces: some are bright as business has been done, some are gloomy as they are disappointed. There is a corner of the fair where Elle Shushan, who sells portrait miniatures, Michele Beiny (French porcelain), Robert Young (English folk art), and Sandra Hindman (of Les Enluminures, illuminated manuscripts) all gather. They are a friendly crew and they look out for each other - this is the epitome of the collegiate nature of the trade. There is no competition between them, just a healthy respect for one another's professionalism. Each of these dealers makes a huge effort with his or her stand and the results are universally successful. They are all Masterpiece exhibitors too and there is much talk about the forthcoming fair... but equally the cold outside, hence my eagerness to head off to Miami.

My visit to Miami was punctuated by strange happenings. As I went through security, the large gun-toting guard removed his hat to wipe his head, and inside the hat I spotted a shiny cellophane compartment, holding photographs. I made a comment and he proceeded to show me his family in his hat. What a good place to keep your family, under your hat! I had never imagined I would encounter a real-life version of the phrase.

The second incident was in the street outside my hotel. My son Inigo and I like to play a game where you score a point every time you spot a Mustang. When we are apart, the only way to score is to take and send a photo as proof. So, I spotted a Mustang parked on the main drag, so I whipped out my camera phone and prepared to take a snap. What I had failed to notice was that there was a courting couple inside, in a clinch. The man spotted me trying to take a picture and went ballistic - he jumped out of the car and looked very menacing. I decided to run for it and though he tried to chase, he soon gave up and I caught my breath with his expletives ringing in my ears.

The third unusual encounter came as I walked back to the hotel late at night. Two men, British, wearing smart blue shirts and jeans, both quite tubby and rolling slightly unsteadily along, having possibly imbibed a bit much. Holding hands they were shouting quite loudly: "I am the most gay!" "No," says the other, "I am! I am way more gay than you!" Having failed to reach a consensus on this point, they loudly agreed that they loved each other, politely interrupting their passionate embrace to let me pass. Miami is definitely an intense place, especially around South Beach.

The Original Miami Beach Antique show has over 1000 booths and they cover a mass of space. It is a jewellery show primarily, with almost everything else as well. At Masterpiece we have 16 exhibitors in modern and antique jewellery, representing exactly 10% of the fair - to put it another way 90% is not jewellery. Most of our jewellery exhibitors are here, together with almost every jeweller in the world - this is almost a jewellery convention. For a week or so they trade, barter and talk, it is a very 'full on' environment. I spend many hours running around looking for buying opportunities, and the day passes successfully if expensively.

Back in New York briefly before my flight home early Sunday morning, I catch up with my former colleague Nick and his wife Jamie, and we go to a bar called The Dead Rabbit. This oddly named cocktail bar is in an old house by Bowling Green and serves the most amazing cocktails I think I have ever encountered. They serve the classics and do so with perfect balance and consistency, but they also have created a roster of new ones. I had a 'Gladstone' - composed of whiskey, absinthe, ginger and vermouth, this came in a simple wine glass and was a joy to consume. We had food too, which was cleverly thought out as there were no big plates to get in the way, just delicious snack food, almost like at a cocktail party: oysters of medium size, deliciously sweet and soft, beef sliders, tiny aromatic one-bite lamb chops, crispy fries and succulent tiny morsels of deep fried battered fish. But the cocktails were the stars - even the piano player and our neighbours singing along could not distract us. To inappropriately echo the words of General MacArthur - "I came through and I shall return."

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Week 60 - Battersea and BRAFA Sandwiches and Oysters

 

The walls are painted grey and there is a binary split in the nature of our humble 10 square metre stand. On the left, glittering, fashionable costume jewellery sparkles and shines. On the right, like some retired Colonel standing formally but redundantly, my mahogany and satinwood furniture resides. The fun began on Tuesday, the doors to the Battersea decorative fair were flung open and everyone flocked to Mrs Sungoose's stand. At one point I noted over 25 people huddling avidly and greedily over her display cases. The only visible sign of her being her hand, held high aloft, trying to get a signal for her card-reading machine. She took so many payments the machine had to be left alone for a while to cool down! By the end of the fair, she had sold just under 70 items. My chairs were used like a doctor's waiting room, with the disgruntled having to wait to either pay or try something on. I tried to look keen and enthusiastic but it was hard. I did manage to sell a couple of things but they were hers!

The joy of Battersea is its relaxed attitude. Dogs wander around, sniffing and occasionally chasing each other. Children wander. The side doors are always open and folk wander in and out, chatting, smoking or discussing a sale or a purchase. There is security, but most of all there is trust, it is a very friendly environment, more like being in Canada or Ireland. The stall holders metaphorically leave their front doors open. The food at the fair is provided by Megan, she used to be an antique dealer but changed her shop on the Kings Road into a cafe and has not looked back. Returning some years ago to her native Australia, she returns three times a year to cater for this fair. She brings her team and her engaging family and they keep us all fed with Beetroot cake and slow roasted duck with Savoy cabbage. My neighbour, the always charming William Thuillier, an old master picture dealer who did Masterpiece at the beginning, is kept alive by Megan's culinary enchantments. Opposite I have Callaghan, an energetic much-travelled ambitious Irishman who sells limited edition bronzes of animals and ballerinas. On the other corner we have Marcelline who is a traditional furniture dealer based in the Blanchard Collective. Together we form a motley crew but chatty and positive and kept buoyant by the occasional espresso or glass of Prosecco.

On Wednesday night, I fulfilled a long held dream. I dined at the India Club. On the Strand by Waterloo Bridge just by Somerset House there is an unassuming doorway that leads up to a second floor dining room. This is the India Club. It is just a plain unadorned room of about 12 basic tables: the tops are Formica and the floor has seen better days. This is not luxury, positively the opposite, but I have heard of this place for many years, reported as a wonder of both good value and delicious fresh food. Recalling my swap shop moment in Stow I nipped out to the local Tesco and procured a bottle of their Portuguese Mateous rosé rip off. Commendably cheap, coming from their 'simply' range it was chilled, and, as is traditional, slightly fizzy. It was perfect. We were served with piping hot, brightly seasoned and flavoured, traditional fare. The menu is short and classic but we ate off the scarred and polished silvery metal platters that are the paradigm of such places. We left charged with both nostalgia and food, but equally less money than I have paid for a meal in years.

Thursday morning I cycled off early to St Pancras to catch the train to Brussels in order to see the opening of BRAFA. Though long-established, this fair has recently become a major show on the world fair stage. No longer a parochial event, it draws in exhibitors and visitors from all over Europe, and some from America. Dawn broke as I made my way over the river and the cloudy, cold, but bright London looked particularly fetching. I was travelling with Natalie from the office and Giles from Mallett. The purpose of this visit was to both buy and to visit the fair. There are a number of our current Masterpiece roster and quite a few who would like to talk to us. The train is painlessly quick and before we had time to get bored, we were presenting our vast preview tickets at the door. The ticket was more like a place mat than a ticket, enormous. The entrance to a fair is crucially important, it sets the tone. Here we were confronted with a timber version of a 1960's space station, all curves and bright white, but in strips of wood. The impression I had was as if Robinson Crusoe had been asked to build a rocket ship interior. Passing through into the fair normality returns barring the occasional massive pendant floral ornament.

The fair takes the form of three aisles, and they are very long. It is a long walk down each one, but it is very particular and it gives the fair an identity and a character. I think the challenge of every fair is to create both an environment that is conducive to sales for the exhibitor and an atmosphere which is totally unique. BRAFA achieves this admirably. The fair seems to drive business, it comes at a good time to kick the year off, and it is quintessentially Belgian. I could not define for you what makes it so, but everyone I speak to agrees that it is. We spend 4 hours looking and discussing and make a few small purchases, then head back to the hotel to prepare for dinner.

Giles has damaged his foot and consequently walks carefully with a stick. I have therefore booked my favourite Brussels fish restaurant because it is only a few minutes away. Walking with Giles is an altogether interesting and challenging process. His pace, given the dodgy foot issue, is snail-like. This means that we do not rush and I find that far from being frustratingly slow, it is quite the opposite. Our Papal-slow progression allows for calm and conversation and I find that I look around and reflect on the day and what we are discussing in a smoother and more dignified way. Walking with Giles is rather therapeutic.

Vismet is now firmly established in my mind as one of my favourite places. The wooden interior set on the ground floor of a traditional Flemish gabled house, is instantly comforting. The menu is a photocopied hand-written one and only consists of about a dozen dishes. All the food is prepared visibly in the open kitchen at the back of the room. The chef writes the word 'top' beside his preferred dish each day. I am not sure if it is English or that the word has become seamlessly international. The top dish is always a good choice. A few super fresh really salty oysters, followed by sea bass and accompanied with an icy Alsace wine, allowed us to drift off on a reverie of the day and we made our slow progress back to the hotel content.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week 59 - Westward by Road

Back behind the wheel, with my trusty giant Twix nestling in my glove compartment, ready to grant me the benison of its exquisite chocolate, caramel and biscuit melange when a sugar crisis raises its head. Even now, as I guzzle the chocolate stick I cannot resist pretending I am smoking a cigar, something I have never done in real life! An early start delivering a boy to school then I press my Saab into 'd' for drive and we issue forth into the torrential rain. This is my first long run of the year and by my return I will have put 600 miles under my wheels. My soft top Saab has a strange character, as the rain pounds on the roof and splashes on the windscreen I feel as if I am driving a tent, that same sense of being both separate from and part of the weather. I nose out of town slowly on the M4 heading out to Hunterscombe Manor where "The Country Seat" are closing down. The firm were for many years pioneering in the marketing of signed or designed 19th century furniture and decorations. They produced for a few years thoroughly scholarly and innovative catalogues, I still treasure them. Then, when the trade changed post 2008 things went wrong and business faded away to a trickle. The two partners Willy and Harvey have both got health problems. This sorry tale concluded in a sale at Sworders recently and i am off to commiserate and say goodbye as they tidy up and clear out ahead of the sale of their building. Willy is not there but Harvey and his daughter are on site packing and preparing. As I admire the wonderful barn and reminisce with them about good times I cannot stop myself being affected by a wave of melancholy. Two dealers have worked their whole lives and devoted themselves to making a small ripple in the appreciation of their discipline and now it is gone, lotted up and sold. For Forty years Harvey has been studying, buying and displaying his finds. He cannot just stop and he will become one of the many spectres that gather at sales to seek out the mis-catalogued and to connect with former colleagues. He shuffles around, in a curmudgeonly way mourning the lost and unenthusiastic about the future. I buy a small thing out of nostalgia and drag the sodden loose bottomed box through the heavy rain to my car. Out of the drive and off to Calne in Wiltshire.

My next stop is with a living legend. Kevin has been in the trade since Noah sold on the Ark second-hand, and he is steeped in the traditions of the top end of 'volume' selling. He holds swathes of stock, much of it of moderate distinction, but many treasures. My first boss at Mallett, the equally legendary David Nickerson, used to regularly negotiate splendid multi item deals. They would meet and over many packets of cigarettes they would thrash out deals often including 15 or 20 items. I would sit quietly in the background observing the stags locking horns. In my time of being in charge I would do swap deals with Kevin, always aware that he was getting the better of me, but not minding. A few years ago his son came into the business and he has a knack with modern pictures. He is open and boyish and clearly very successful. This team make a stark counterpoint to my morning call and I sit drinking coffee, myriad plans and schemes percolate through the conversational cloud. Kevin does not smoke any more and even for him the stock now moves quite slowly. But even though he is a grandee he has not lost his love of the deal. We walk through everything and I am inspired by several items that offer a potential opportunity.

Back into the rain and as I head further west I am amazed by the unrelenting nature of the flood. Water is everywhere; fields are awash; the roads run like rivers and all around strange reflections throw up light in unexpected ways. I am off to see our Masterpiece exhibitor Edward Hurst. His discrete shed in Coombe Bissett is impossible to find without Satellite Navigation and a great deal of luck. In near total darkness and my low suspension grinding on the uneven road surface i pulled up into his forecourt. No sign, no number, no indication of life at all. He had sent a sub' to show me around and I though I walked through attentively enough, I saw nothing that captured my imagination. The only oddity was talking to his, and my, great friend Tony Fell on the telephone whilst browsing. At Masterpiece, the guys are often to be seen chatting or lunching, they are spiritually in sync when it comes to dealing and luckily they get on well too. One of the most fun dealing days I have ever had was when I went to the Swap shop in Stow-on-the-Wold. Tony and Edward inducted me into the world of barter trading. I arrived with over 50 items and swapped my way into leaving with about 6. No money changed hands and it was a feverish and intense day. Culminating in what Tony calls a 'long swap". That is to say a swap that includes 5 or even 6 swaps to get you what you want. It was terrific and everyone repaired to a drunken cricket match, where I was coerced into humiliating myself with an astonishingly erratic over of bowling followed by an uproarious Indian meal nearby. Sadly, without Edward at his barn there was no magic and I headed back into the night to head for a night in Bristol.

The next morning I head off to North Wraxall to visit Delomosne. They are one of the last dedicated dealers in glass and i was keen to see if they had any new excitements. The rain abated for a few minutes and I pulled in and walked across to their elegant barn. Tim greeted me enthusiastically and we had a lively chat about fairs and their advantages and futures. The struggle for so many dealers is that they need fairs, as the public like them, but the serious buying public only visit the more interesting or glamorous ones. In order to be sufficiently enticing the better fairs spend huge sums on the internal experience from a display and a culinary perspective. Therefore they tend to be quite expensive to exhibit at and that precludes dealers whose stock is not of high value. Those dealers are caught between a rock and a hard place with decreasing local visitors and excluded from the better fairs. It is very tough. But Tim loves glass, and his inventory of fine 18th century drinking glasses, chandeliers and table glass are carefully chosen and displayed.

From Tim I headed off to Stroud to the second discrete shed of my road trip, that of Craig Carrington. I have been buying from Craig for nearly 25 years and he has a clear and precise elegant neo-classical taste. He has a strong following and his shed is a paragon of smart objects, laid out in a cool and clear manner. He has some fine pieces and I am tempted by quite a few things. We carry on the discussion of stock and his potential exhibit at Masterpiece over lunch at Williams Fish Market and Foodhall at 3 Fountain Street Nailsworth Gloucestershire. This is the kind of place that justifies many miles on the road. There is nowhere to park and there are hardly any tables. The tables are basic as is the decor, but the food is magnificent. There are a bevy of charming solicitous older women who bustle around ministering. Sitting in the window at a counter nursing a glass of house white wine I am softened up with a small bowl of spicy crab soup. It warms, tingles and delights in equal measure. Then a plate of buttery soft salt and pepper squid, garnished with a huge bowl of golden brown crunchy crispy chips. To the chagrin of the staff I get a small bowl of tomato ketchup and the rest of the meal dissolves into an uneven medley of tastes. I leave to head home replete with miles, meetings and now transcendent seafood.

Week 58 - Nature and Art

You never know where your next surprise is going to come from. With window rattling winds and torrential rain, cycling around London is not a particularly pleasing prospect. After a couple of days huddling in my car and playing parking-Russian-roulette, I decided to brave the seasonal elements and head off. My brother in law was in the Gurkhas as young man and spent many a night lying on the beach at night waiting for illegal immigrants to land around Hong Kong. He said it was often very wet and miserable lying on the shell beaches. But he learnt, and subsequently told me, that it actually rarely rains continually, even on a really rainy day, it comes in fits and starts. This was my optimistic approach as I headed out into a gap in the seemingly endless squall. The tepid but bright winter sun peaked out from behind the apocalyptic black clouds and I pushed off. After 20 minutes, I had arrived at the office nearly dry. I had sped down to Vauxhall, over Lambeth Bridge, round Smith Square, up by Green Park and then the last push up the hill of St James' and I was chaining up my bike. The rain had held off, and as I threaded my way through these beautiful parts of London, I felt once again the joy and the delight of being free, roaming in our wonderful city. However, there was one fly in the ointment. I had chosen to ride my Leader 725, which is lightweight, fast and responsive, as I imagine a fine horse would be. The down-side of this fine steed is that it has no mudguards. Given the amount of water on the road, and the Cumbrian lakes of puddles that punctuate the streets, I got very precisely wet from my bottom up to my neck in a straight line of spray up my spine. My front and sides were warm, almost toasty from my energies, but I had this exquisite line of freezing cold and dripping wet. Never mind.

I went to a pub in Masbro Road in Hammersmith called the Havelock Tavern to meet with my assistant and my accountant. It has big windows and is on a corner so it makes a great winter location when we are keen for any light. It has made a speciality of simple, carefully made, robust food. As we discussed my chaos and half-baked plans, we consumed salmon, beef and chicken, all of which were good enough to distract us from our conversation without inspiring us to rave or take pictures. It is funny the way meals can be like that; good, worthy, nourishing meals that nonetheless are neither bad nor good, just 'fine'. It sounds as if I am being a trifle dismissive here but actually this sort of nourishment gives great comfort. You feel cosseted without having to pay much attention to what you are actually eating. My ex-boss at Mallett once called our in-house cook into the Mallett dining room. He was not a great foodie but he had enjoyed his lunch greatly. "Catherine", he said, "that was delicious, it didn't taste of anything!" Naturally, she was quite crestfallen thinking he had called her in to carry out some sort of cruel practical joke. But, truthfully, he had tried to compliment. He meant that the food was 'fine' and that it had all been delicious and nothing had tasted 'too' anything. The perfect culinary harmony she had achieved had rendered it invisible, which in the context of a working lunch is altogether good. This was the case at the Havelock, but I did not repeat his compliment.

I drove down to Dorset to visit the artist Simon Gudgeon. He has created an amazing aquatic sculpture park. Some years ago he bought a struggling fish farm and has redeveloped it into a wonderful and surprising walk of figurative and abstract sculpture. Many works play with reflections and are nuanced and moved by changes in light and wind. Simon and his wife are both gardeners and dog lovers in probably equal measure. Their house and gardens are immaculate and each piece is beautifully located and planted around. There is a strong Japanese aesthetic at work, visible in the detail, the finishes, the surfaces and even in the broader arrangements. Simon is a precise man with a determined and ambitious drive that makes him the success he is, but also seems to encourage him to be brave and creative too. He seems to be coming up with new ideas and concepts for work on a daily basis. I was particularly struck by the remote control helicopter he had built in order to take aerial pictures of his park and works. Around the property his dogs roamed in confident disorder, each an interesting breed, glossily healthy and cheerful.

He is keen to do something with us at Masterpiece and the challenge is to find a way of incorporating his work into our show in a way that is both beneficial and appropriate to both parties. We will need to think hard, as the work is outside our normal style but he is full of creativity and drive. In addition to his lakes, the local countryside is awash, temporary lakes abound and the pub at which we ate lunch was practically afloat. As we ate our fishcakes and crab tarts, washed down with fizzy water, I could practically hear Simon's mind crackling with energy as he discussed his plans for the next few months. As I drove away, I felt very enthused by this artist who has made this private park but looks out via the internet and connections to the whole world.

Every time I walk along the Quai Voltaire I pass the shop of Guy Ladrière. I have never been in, embarrassingly. I stare at the window and I presume, as I press my nose to the glass, that I won't be able to afford anything. For 10 years Benjamin Proust was residing on the other side of the glass, but he is now an independent sculpture dealer and has a showroom in Bond St almost opposite where Mallett were for many years. I never knew there was a gallery there. As I look back on my 25 Mallett years, I increasingly conclude that I worked in a sort of bubble, strangely unaware of the world beyond our showrooms and suppliers. Benjamin has been in the business for 20 years and I have really hardly met him. We met once, at the Christies box at Chelsea football club, but that is all. Here is someone, highly respected and with long experience, that I have only just got to know, and I so easily could have done so before, both in Paris and in London.

He is one of those vertical people. Tall and incredibly skinny with that trendy beard which is a cross between being unshaven and an actual beard, 'manly stubble'. He has very much the current fashionable look. But he is infectiously friendly and enthusiastic. His art is sculpture and he buys eclectically and shows his work in a creative and clean, modern way. He is not pretentious but the look is very cool. I asked him whether he was a relative of Marcel Proust, the author. He answers that it is possible, but not definite, but he does say that he has a relative called Madeleine Proust, which is perfect! She became so by marrying into the family, consequently it is a total accident that she is named after the inspiration for the great author's fictionalised memoire.

In Dorset I was struck by the bright sun shining on the water everywhere, the trees and bushes are leafless and everything seems very dead and wintery. But I stopped and looked a bit closer and those dead looking branches are full of buds. Life is lurking, building up strength to burst out again come a clement moment. I know this is a fact known to most, but I am an ardent habitual town dweller and this dormant life is a discovery. I found it most inspiring and thought perhaps the New Year is a good time to make resolutions after all, ones that need to build up strength before they burst onto the scene in the Spring.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week 57 - New Year and Resolutions

Leaving the warmth of Aqaba in the south of Jordan and driving up Highway 15 for three and a half hours towards Amman in a minibus piloted by a fresh-faced boy wearing a scarf, a beanie and sunglasses, provided a surreal new version of the expectation which New Year's Eve usually engenders. He spoke very little English but had a recurring mantra - You need toilet?' These potential stops coincided with the periodic appearance of a warehouse offering Dead Sea beauty products, mosaic-decorated objects or miscellaneous stuff with Jordan logos. We declined to his increasing chagrin - obviously his commission or just a break from our chatter being denied him. Arriving at the Le Meridien back in Amman we were swept through the security scanners. Every hotel has an airport-like scanner and accompanying conveyor belt which you have to pass through each time you enter and place your treasures on the belt. Smuggling booze into the hotel and having it security checked is an exquisite embarrassment. There is also the Kafkesque Tourist Police, ever-present, sporting their military uniforms and pistols. I have often wondered at the absence of Tourist Police elsewhere as travellers often misbehave, or say annoying or stupid things loudly about the art they are in front of, and an arrest and a few days in a tourist jail might well be remedial. But apparently that's not their particular role.

After security, we were offered the New Year's Eve entertainment opportunity of yet another buffet followed by belly dancing. All of this was available at two prices, one without alcohol and the other with 'limited' alcohol. The word 'limited' put off the younger members of our party, and our group enthusiasm for buffets had waned considerably over the past 10 days, so we decided to make our own party later by repairing, after dinner, to one of our rooms. In the interim, we dined at an International chain in the hotel, a Benihana - we had loved all our grilled meats, salads and hummus but the mood was for variety. The theme of the restaurant is Japanese and the chef comes to the table and larks about with sharp knives as he prepares your grilled meats and salads. Though fun to watch and eat as the chef crashed about, we were all struck by the fact that we had swapped like for like. No hummus though. At our impromptu house party we sang songs, told jokes and drank hideous, overpriced and warm sparkling wine purchased from the liquor store outside the hotel. We welcomed in the year via a laptop countdown which was slightly messed up as we logged on to UK time forgetting that it was only 10pm there, whilst we were two hours ahead in Jordan.

The New Year brought a delayed, painful, squashed, and bumpy flight back to London at the very back of the plane, and it was as weary travellers that we arrived at home. London was awash and icy winds cut through us; we shivered as we unpacked in our warm, centrally-heated, but emphatically not Jordanian, home. Our suitcases were full of sand and dirty clothes, our minds far from revelry. In fact, baths and early to bed seemed the order of the day.

A short working week of only a couple of days, and what was more, most offices still seemed closed with staff taking a full fortnight for the holiday. Masterpiece was like the Marie Celeste. Various computers were flickering with activity but this was taking place from elsewhere. Those who had work to do were performing it from home and so the ship was being successfully steered, but remotely, apparently by ghosts.

I had two important tasks to carry out: one was to find an exhibitor's missing book, and the other was to overcome yet another iphone issue. I failed in both as, one way or another, domestic house-keeping, took up all my time. But cycling fruitlessly around London gave me an opportunity to reflect on the year to come.

For those of us in the art fair world, the first event is BRAFA in Brussels, which has become one of most important European fairs apart from TEFAF. After that, there is the NY Winter Show, and then events in Miami and Palm Beach race on, back to back. Suddenly we are half way through February and preparations begin for TEFAF itself. The first 3 months of the year are frantically busy as, at Masterpiece, we are allocating the last few stands and balancing the aisles so as to keep the versatility and eclecticism that is our trademark. The next stage can then begin - the process of coaxing designs and novel promotional material out of our exhibitors. With all the noise this generates, it is often hard to find time to consider how we could do all of this better, or even differently. On my bike I did not discover anything or invent a new strategy, but I did have a chance to ruminate.

Mainly, I thought about resolutions for this New Year. The usual round of things: more exercise, less booze, eating in greater moderation, more early nights - all those things that you might call the 'usual suspects'- raised their ugly predictable heads. But I tried to be a bit more creative. It is an amazing thing that the New Year manages to bring on this rash of thoughts. It is mid-winter, it is cold and miserable - and yet it is the moment when people look to review themselves. It feels as though it should be in the spring that these thoughts emerge - as fresh buds appear and the days extend, then we should be creative. I would like to learn more, to get myself some deeper knowledge about something. Our exhibitors are such a rich panoply of types who bring an extraordinary and indefinable mix of personalities into one space for a week in summer. I really should know them all better, but at the moment stand C22 occupies my mind. I think I will postpone creativity for a while.

Week 56 - Christmas in Jordan

Jordan looks on the map like a skinny student in a cagoule carrying a massive rucksack. The thought bubble above his head is the Sea of Galilee and his toes dip into the Red Sea. His rucksack is the Eastern desert. Jordan, officially The Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, also appears to be standing in a very crowded railway carriage, with Iraq and Syria to the North, and Saudi Arabia and Egypt to the south; not forgetting Palestine, Israel and nearby Lebanon. Our guide described Jordan as a quiet family with noisy neighbours. A young country, only created in 1946, it was fashioned out of the land that gave us ancient history. The Middle East gave us our first ancient cities, some of our earliest cattle and possibly some of our crucial domestic crops - the evocatively named Fertile Crescent. Without wanting to drift into an area of expertise where I have none, the land Jordan occupies could not be more suffused with antiquity.

Today Jordan has become a safe haven, a sanctuary. At its birth in 1946, the state had a population of 400,000, of which a quarter were nomads. Today, the population is in excess of 6 million. The near absolute rule of kings Hussein and now Abdullah II have fashioned a tolerant, stable and broadly secular state, which is a magnet to the wars and religious refugees of the region. Most incomers live in the North around Amman, but Aqaba in the south is a thriving busy port and business centre.

We arrived in Jordan late at night and in darkness found ourselves at our hotel amid clouds of cigarette smoke. It is amazing how used to the smoke -free world I am. Around midnight, sitting in the lobby, eating hummus with warm pitta bread and drinking Turkish medium sweet coffee (an exquisite drink made from finely ground coffee flavoured with rosewater and cardamom, which delivers caffeine, exotic flavour and a mouthful of grit at the bottom of every cup) amidst a haze of blue grey smoke, we were immersed from the start in a sense of truly being somewhere else. I forget how familiar the countries I visit for work are. Here in Jordan, I am really abroad, and that fact is even more stimulating than the coffee.

We have two noble guardians, our guide Sohaib and our coach driver Ismael. Sohaib is 28, wears faded jeans, a faded blue baseball cap, is trendily unshaven and has a keen, lively expression. A cigarette perches permanently on his lower lip. He proudly and with a broad smile informs me that 85% of the population smokes. I can't help asking whether he worries about cancer, and his repost is that we live in perilous times - cancer is just not at the top of the worry list. He travels in Europe during the summer and takes tourists around his own country from September to May. His parents moved to Jordan and he was born here, studied hard and got the travel bug. He works in order to feed his wanderlust. I wonder whether he has nomad genes, but I don't ask.

Ismael is in his 60s and is not tall. He loves the little bus in which he drives us about; the windows gleam as does the body, not a scratch on any part. He is similarly immaculate, in bright white shirt and dark tank top, his neatly cut hair somehow echoed by his crisply pressed trousers. He smiles. He bestows a benign aura. With Ismael at the wheel, nothing bad could happen. Jordan's roads seem to combine carpet-like smoothness with winding awkward narrowness in equal measure. The country has got an extreme case of speed bumps. Some road transport guru has proclaimed that every road should have randomly placed expressions of this so-called 'traffic calming' method; they are even on the motorways! But Ismael navigates these with a sort of 6th sense. They appear without warning and though we bounce, we do so with as little disturbance as is possible. With these two conducting u,s we are transported and educated wonderfully.

The biblical sites of Jordan jostle for prominence with the Roman, the Byzantine, the Nabatean, the Crusader, the Mamluk, the Abbasid, etc. The country is crammed full of places to see and from which to learn. We are only here for a week and it is impossible to see it all. The most famous sites are broadly covered but the overriding sense is that we are having a cultural appetiser. Just being here is the most powerful memory in the making. We are duly impressed by the cultural riches, but the country and its people are the greatest daily pleasure. Everyone is helpful, obliging and charming. We bought a pair of sunglasses, with a young boy no more than 10 years old was as our salesman. He begun by putting his hand on my shoulder, and, as he was about 4ft tall and I am 6, that was a stretch to start with. He shook my hand vigorously: "my friend, how can I help you?" We negotiated and made a purchase, all accomplished with smiles and good humour. I would have happily paid the asking price just for the joy of the encounter. However I did haggle and though I definitely overpaid, I was thrilled to hand over my cash in the end. Drinking coffee or the equally delicious immersion of lemon juice sweetened and heaped with finely chopped fresh mint is not in the guide book. Beside the road, we eat freshly-grilled meat wrapped in flatbread, the meat juices softening and flavouring the bread, surrounded by tea-drinking card players, all smoking, and many using water pipes. These are experiences that you cannot quantify in terms of how much they broaden and enlighten. Along the roads we see garden centres where the trees and shrubs are nurtured in recycled olive oil tins, these colourful boxes providing a beautiful contrast to the grey-green plants.

From the coach we look out at the tiers of white block-like houses that populate the cities and towns and feel we could be in any age. In the towns, there are many shops that are simply boxes with a metal grille at the front that is pulled down when they close. At many of the Roman sites, the cardos, or shopping streets, have shops which operated in exactly the same way. I keep feeling a strange ripple of time as if nothing has actually changed for 2000 years. At one site there was a trader seated, calling out to visitors offering 'memory cards, cameras, and batteries'. His little wooden folding stand and his whole demeanour was totally timeless. As he sat in a Roman forum I found it hard seeing him as being of our age, rather that of the surrounding monuments ,yet his offering could not have been more contemporary.

Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day merge together. As we stand in front of the Temple of Artemis at Jerash, the question is 'what day is it?' Is it Tuesday? Is it Christmas Eve? If the hotels know, they remorselessly play Michael Bublé singing 'White Christmas' counterpointed with Arabic music. The contrast eloquently expresses the peculiarity of our situation. There is a Christmas tree in the restaurant as we tuck in to our Fattoush, a chopped salad of tomatoes and lettuce with crunchy pieces of deep fried pitta bread, made sharp with lemon juice and sumac; followed by freshly grilled Red and King Fish, whose deaths I decreed as they swam in a nearby tank. We have Father Christmas placemats, but there it ends. There are a few Christians in Jordan - after all this is where it all began. The guide book helpfully points out that there have been Christians in Jordan, 'since the crucifixion' but today they represent less than 10% of the population.

Yesterday we went to Wadi Rum, a desert valley. We arrived and were transferred to ancient rusty open-backed 4x4 trucks, each with bench seats upholstered in local Bedouin fabric, in which we drove off onto the hard stony sand. Quickly we forgot the visitor centre and moved in total silence amid a strange family of giant rocks. This was the bottom of the ocean and the giants are harder stones that have been left, surviving millions of years as the sands and time wear everything else away. They look like battered survivors too, each wind-blown and soft. We stopped beside the Seven Pillars of Wisdom, the mountain that resembles a cluster of columns which gave the title to T. E. Lawrence's memoir of the Arab revolt, written in 1922. Later we saw a rough carving of Lawrence done in 1917 as he rushed through on his way to Damascus. Not surprisingly, the film 'Lawrence of Arabia' was filmed here. For us it felt as if we were in a magnificent cathedral. The reverential hush pervaded and we all felt like being quiet. The sand dunes whispered in the wind and the only interruption was the grind of truculent gears and the strange bellowing of camels. We drank tea in a Bedouin tent and reflected on the last week. Here we are in the desert, capturing in microcosm the history of this nation from its pre-history through to today, via the residue of the Arab revolt. There is an inspiring energy to this nation. At every site we visit, new aspects are being discovered and revealed. The population is growing and, though the economy is fragile, there is construction everywhere. Many buildings are topped with steel tendrils that reach up to the sky, optimistically waiting for a further storey when time or money allows. This is a physical manifestation of this country's hope for the future. I am inspired by my visit and feel humbled by the achievement of nation-building that we have been privileged to witness.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 55 - Christmas Parties

It is often said of me that I wear a number of different hats when it comes to earning a living. Though the hat swapping can be sometimes confusing to others, and even to myself, in that I never quite know which one I am wearing at any given moment, it does have some advantages. At Christmas in particular, I really enjoy my multiple bonnets. The reason is that I get invited as a guest to a number of parties. I don't quite belong to any one group, but I am attached to many, and am only too happy to give each party my full attention.

The festive season began with the Masterpiece party. Getting away from the West End of London we gathered at the home of our leader Nazy, who plied us with Ruinart whilst her daughter amused us with tales of rivalries at school. We nibbled as we opened our Secret Santa presents. This is a great system for offices where each employee only has to buy one gift, and no one knows who is their donor. It works well and everyone has the fun of guessing who gave what. Then dinner at a local hostelry, all great fun and not too much talk of Masterpiece. The evening was gentle and started the season off well. We had a slight tinge of melancholy as our team has changed, with our brilliant vetting coordinator Bess heading off, newly wed, to live back in her home nation of the USA. Her fellow compatriot Elizabeth, who helped me get the fair going in its earliest days, has also moved on, in her case to the Masterpiece PR team at Gong Muse. But it was melancholy tinged with excitement, as both are raring to go in their new lives. Masterpiece is growing and developing and we had to have some staff changes; it was remarkable that we had such a stable team in these first 5 years.

Then Mallett had its evening and we all dressed in black tie. I had planned to cycle over but the wind was blowing hard and rain was trying to add to the gruesomeness, so I lost my nerve and set off on the underground with the Princess of Nebraska, one of the key talents at Hatfields, the restoration business. We discussed the possibilities of mayhem. The Mallett party has been legendary over the last few years for good fellowship and an entertaining mix of guests. The senior board directors sit alongside the van drivers and secretaries, and everyone gets on fine. Occasionally there is a memorably amusing distraction, but mainly it passes with decorum and civilisation, more is the pity. Giles, the CEO, has made a tradition of doing a quiz, ably assisted by my colleague Francesca. This always causes a lot of shouting and cheating and this year was no exception with many guests crying foul. But it all ended happily and we moved on to a very silly game where you have to pick up a box with your teeth without touching the ground with any other part of your body, other than your feet. The more competitive members of the team got into this with a little too much gusto; in parallel, a couple of the girls were so supple that they could do it without even trying. The old men struggled and some triumphed as others fell by the wayside. The girls won easily.

Then a detour from Christmas excess. A friend has found a red lacquer cabinet on stand and, as we are both going away for Christmas and New Year, I decide to run down to the country to see it. We meet at the station, which is a miracle as he is always late. He has been around the business forever and though he finds the most marvellous, unseen, things, he is not the most reliable in terms of time keeping. With most people I know, it would be irritating how late he is; with him it is almost loveable. He gets incredibly involved in all that he does and there is never enough time for all his passion and intense focus. The next thing just has to wait. It is a bit tough if you are the next thing, but it is wonderful if you are the current thing. We drive to his house and look at the cabinet. It is, as anticipated, very interesting. It has a red lacquer exterior and a black lacquer interior. I have seen this kind of thing before but it is very rare. The boring thing is that it has big splits in the doors. I am too afraid of the restoration to pursue it. He is not bothered and he pours me a glass of Champagne. Never was a difficult moment so elegantly and charmingly overcome. He remembers everything and I forget everything. I had made some casual promise which I had now failed to fulfil. He took it well and though I know he will remember, I think he will forgive me, as we want to do business again. The Champagne was followed by the most delicious repast, string cut root vegetables roasted to crispness in the Aga, accompanied by the most succulent partridge I had ever had. He split them and covered with oil and salt, a tiny browning in a hot pan and then into the oven for seemingly no time at all. To accompany, we had quartered Brussels sprouts with lardons cooked in stock. A delicious Aga-warmed bottle of Crôzes-Hermitage went down all too easily alongside, the dusty bottle a perfect moment in this house of perfect dusty moments. A tiny piece of perfect creamy stingingly-strong stilton finished us off. I went to bed replete and forgiven for not buying when I had promised to; the early train was waiting as we arrived at the station and my fleeting country run came to an end.

Back in town, I pay a swift visit to Thomas Dane who provides me with coffee, chocolate, iphone charger and wifi, before a brief discussion. Refuelled and ready for action I head down to Clapham for the Hatfields Christmas event. Another quiz, lots of jokes and teasing, another festival of rich food and even more booze. Swaying slightly, I venture to the neighbors', more drink, more snacks. Then dinner with further neighbours. Exhausted by excessive jollity, late at night, I complete my packing.

Sunday dawns and after a punitive hour or so in the gym with my scarily fit and strong oldest son, the whole family head off for our Christmas and New Year adventure. The airport provided its usual social humiliations. The holes in my socks being the least of a bad bunch. Then we were on board and 5 hours later we landed in Jordan for 10 days of material and social culture. The brand new airport beckoned us and we knew we were in a totally new and yet totally ancient world.

Week 54 - Sorrolla

 

Air travel is supposed to be a thrill and a delight. The limousine to the airport, followed by seamless check-in, your bags carried through security by helpful and obliging staff. A light snack as a pause before boarding, then sit back in your broad comfortable seat. All that remains before take-off is to peruse the in-flight entertainment, sipping champagne, in the almost church like silence around. The flight passes and you disembark, your bags again carried through to the car waiting to swish you into the city and your beckoning hotel.

Then you actually wake up! It is 6.30 in the morning; Mrs Sungoose does not want to be awakened so you quietly fumble around trying to find the last few things you need, then trudge in heavy rain to the underground. Battered and clattered, shoved and trodden on, you arrive at the airport to stand at the back of a check-in line. Not being having been able to print the boarding pass means that you have to wait while your fellow travellers wrestle what appears to be their entire households in monumental suitcases along the queue and onto the scales where they fight futile battles to avoid surcharges for shipping the family anvil back to Spain in their hand baggage. Once checked-in the long queue for security awaits, followed by the long queue for passports, followed by the long queue to show your boarding pass, followed by the long queue to actually get on the plane. Aboard your knees are scraped and you can hardly breathe out your neighbours are so close. But two and half hours later you are squeezed out like a slow birth and you can actually begin the pleasure and adventure of being abroad.

Madrid is one of the great European capital cities. I have been coming here since I was at university. However, my visit frequency dramatically increased when my friend Laura moved here 17 years ago. She suggested that I attend the Feriarte which is still the best Spanish annual antique fair. I followed her advice and I have since made friends with several of the dealers and consequently find it highly productive to come several times a year. Sitting with Laura in the hotel bar, we reminisce as I order cava for her and a vodka and tonic for myself. The waitress comes over to our table apologetically, saying that they have run out of cava and would Laura accept a glass of real champagne, Pommery, instead, for the same price. She generously accepts. They bring it along with a huge bucket of ice. It turns out the bucket is in fact my glass, and into it they tip half a bottle of Ciroc vodka and a splash of tonic. This is quite honestly the most enormous drink I think I have ever been poured. I don't so much drink it as take a swim in it.

Laura, since leaving London with no command of Spanish at all, has become one of the foremost translators in the art world. She is constantly immersed in museum and gallery work and she could work 24 hours a day; she sometimes does. But she has taken time out from her computer to dine with me. We talk about our friends in the business, who all seem to be changing or moving their careers. We talk about Masterpiece and what she hears about the fair from several of her galleries. She is often amused to hear gossip, not letting on that she knows someone on the inside of the organisation. But most of all we talk about how Spain has suffered since the economic downturn of 2008. The local trade has been adversely hit and she is very worried about the future. The economy has affected other industries far worse than the art world. In Spain youth unemployment is at record levels, and in certain parts of the country it has reached over 50%. Spain is really suffering.

We dine in one of my favourite places. Comma El Puchero. In the half-basement, the 10 or so tables have their familiar red and white check tablecloths and red pottery decoration. The waiter is a bit frosty until he drops a fork. He then giggles and though he is grizzled, gravel-voiced and 70 odd years old, he flutters around our table and looks after us with charm, wit, generosity and grace. Crispy brown chicken croquettes with arrestingly soft, smooth, creamy interiors and Morcilla black pudding arrive. Spanish black pudding is wonderful; it has rice in it hugely enhances the flavours as well as giving the meat an almost nutty, chewy quality. Both dishes come with fine straw chips - indeed the presentation is as if each dish were coming in a basket filled with straw. The chips are really crisp and sharp with salt, and you can taste the oil in which they were fried. This perfect beginning is followed by a dish of exquisite tiny kidneys presented in an aromatic rich stock gravy. The dish is complemented by tiny wild mushrooms giving extra flavour and a delicate bite alongside the soft buttery kidneys. The house Rioja helps too, being both light and strong in tannin which helps cut through the richness. In Spain everyone eats late and it is a real challenge to be the last to leave the restaurant, but we manage it.

The following day I speed with my friend Antonio around the dealers and the auction houses. There are very few dealers who now actually have shops so we spend half the day jumping in and out of taxis as we criss-cross the city. At each destination, he makes a call and we are led up a staircase into a warehouse space. Everything is tucked away. Despite a bewildering number of visits, the best is always in Antonio's own warehouse. He has an amazingly eclectic eye, loving everything from South American 17th century ivory figures to contemporary art and design, and really everything in between as well. He shuffles along rubbing his short gray hair, either smoking or randomly ruminating like a thoughtful cow. He usually wears an indeterminate pair of squishy shapeless shoes. Today he decided to dress up for me and has put on his suede brogues. They look sparklingly new, though he admits he has owned them for 15 years. This is only their 4th outing. They are clearly staggeringly uncomfortable, as he shuffles along in a more pained than the usual way. At his warehouse, he reveals a fabulous black and red lacquer cabinet on stand and a Neoclassical giltwood mirror, both items way better than anything we have seen on our laborious travels in the city. We repair to a local tapas bar and plan his next move. He needs to save money to buy a flat. But every time he has money, he buys an object or a painting. It is his addiction. But the wonderful thing is that though he buys all the time, he almost never buys badly.

Before leaving Madrid I decide to take a visit to the Sorolla Museum; the beautiful private house built by the artist himself. It was his studio, showroom and home. Today it retains his objects, his sketches and a good selection of his work, particularly portraits of his family. Though the paintings are charming and he was clearly a great talent, the real joy of the place is the space itself. Sorolla created the ultimate house for parties, with big airy rooms interconnecting, full of visual curiosity. In particular the dining room, painted with bright floral swags and his female family members seemingly pinning them up. As you turn a corner, you can look through to other rooms, or see the garden or across the courtyard. I wander around delighting in the tiny formal garden with its paths and benches inset with tiles and the fountains playing in a way reminiscent of the Moorish parts of southern Spain. It was a truly restful quiet moment to brace myself for the hurly burly of the flight home.

Week 53 - Paris and a prayer

Thursday and I am on the train to Paris. Not that the early part of the week was dull in London. In fact, far from it. Masterpiece is a buzz of stand allocation puzzles, with the pieces moving rapidly over the board and finally beginning to settle. This coming year is shaping up really well with the vast majority of our current exhibitors finding their places and a few new ones being slotted into their new homes. Also my friends in Madrid have found some treasures so I am off there next weekend. Finally Mrs Sungoose had her annual jewel fest at our house and, whilst I lurked in the basement plying visitors with Aperol spritz, followed by Daiquiris and finishing off with espresso martinis, she sold and sold and sold in the rest of our Stockwell schloss.

But here I am on the train speeding with the rising day back to Paris. From the Gare du Nord, Giles (from Mallett) and I walk purposefully down to the Drouot. Most of the sales view on Thursday and sell on Friday, so the obvious day to view is Thursday. One has time to consider, reflect and then bid. However, in a cruel and eccentric twist, the rooms have a rule that display cases cannot be opened on Thursday, only on the morning of the sale. I am used to it, and if you really kick up a fuss, they will open them, but you do have to be fierce and insist. It is very French, but when you succeed in buying you really have a sense of having won!

We quickly cover the ground and head on. It is always a race against time on these days as lunch closes everywhere and you therefore have to disembark from the train swiftly and get cracking. In at 10.30, finished for lunch at 12.30. After lunch you can carry on, as most shops open after 2.30pm and stay open until 7pm. Giles hates stopping, he chaffs and rails against the enforced pause. His Spartan workaholic spirit is both appalled and shocked by the frustration that lunch imposes. But, with a plate of food and a glass of sparkling water, his mood improves as I sip at my rosé and devour my onglet with onions and chips. The onglet is a much maligned cut. It is a strip that comes from between the cow's 12th and 13th rib near the liver and kidneys. It thus has a not unsurprising offal quality, lending terrific flavour and texture, and is a haiku on Frenchness. Americans love it too and dub it hanger steak.

Shopping recommences and we pass by the auction house Tajan in the rue des Mathurins. The building is Art Deco and is a pleasure to visit even if the items on view are often not particularly scintillating. It is not slick and done up, but has a charming, slightly run down feel, which makes the whole ambience seem much more authentic.

Then on to Pelham Galleries, not really, but sort of. It is not called Pelham but it de facto is. The business is housed in the old Etienne Levy shop in the rue de Varenne and has been for some years. The area used to teem with dealers but now he is practically the only one left. The shop has been recently refurbished and looks very well, full of the boss, Alan's, usual originality and fantasy in buying. He is a great enthusiast and though we did not see him, rather Dennis his assistant, we were impressed by the musical debris surrounding a beautiful Viennese piano he had just bought. He had clearly just been playing it, as sheet music was everywhere. It was rather wonderful to see this work of art in full flood, alive almost, not just as a cold object awaiting sale.

The day concluded after much walking, hopping on and off buses and journeys down into the labyrinthine complex of the Metro; we quaffed Champagne at a Christmas drinks party taking place across several galleries in the Carré Rive Gauche (the grid of antique shops that starts on the Quai Voltaire and finishes at the Boulevard Saint-Germain). Finally, we withdrew to Le Bistro de Paris in the rue de Lille. The decor is everything that one hopes to find; mirrors, gold and pendant naturalistic electric lights surround marble-topped tables and cafe chairs. Waiters flow in and out of swinging doors carrying silver trays, all wearing aprons over black suits. In short we are in Paris. Oysters (fines de claires), veal sweetbreads and dark wine from Provence follow and then sleep shortly afterwards.

Giles disappears back to London and I settle into a weekend in Paris. I visit the Musée d'Orsay to see the Hungarian art, a show that demonstrates the intimate links between 1900s Paris and the artistic communities of Vienna and Budapest. The show runs until January. Then I speed up to Clignancourt and the flea market that still thrives. Usually I go first thing in the morning and find most of the kiosks shut. This Saturday, I went at midday and I found a heaving throng. The aisles were rammed and the voices of American decorators, followed by their teams, were audible in all corners of the market.

Sunday morning and the sky was bright blue. The streets were mainly empty and quiet and the city seemed peaceful and resting. I wandered over to the Place Saint-Sulpice and, at the Café de la Mairie, settled down to people-watching, cups of coffee and a croque-monsieur made with Poilâne bread. The café is beyond unpretentious, it is dynamically basic. The brown, plastic, simulated leather chairs counterpoint with the dirty, plastic, aluminium-rimmed tables. The staff wander around with a sense of gloom and spill things constantly. From the counter, there was a persistent drip of milk to the floor. But the coffee is perfect and the croque made from this brand of robust rye-enriched sourdough is a revelation. It is worth it all and some more to crunch and chew your way through this classic but innovatively created dish.

Afterwards, I wander over to the church. Saint-Sulpice proclaims itself the second-largest church in Paris. It reminds me of Heston Blumenthal, who was once asked how his restaurant, The Fat Duck, ranked in the world. His reply was that he was 'in the top two'. Not 'number two', but 'in the top two'. However you read it, the answer is not number 1. Poor Saint-Sulpice is in the top two.

Wandering around inside, the air was smoky, thick and aromatic with incense and I felt a real sense of the significance of the day and time. Visitors to the church get excited by the gnomon, a great word referring to an 18th century sundial for measuring the equinoxes and thereby Easter. It featured in Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code. They also marvel at the wonderful 18th century fonts by Jean-Baptiste Pigalle and the intense frescos by Delacroix. But I was drawn to a small chapel at the back. In it stands a white marble statue of St Joseph. Graffiti is all over Paris, from the railways to Serge Gainsbough's house, and the artistic graffiti by Banksy and Invader. Here in this dark scented chapel the white marble has been bedecked with writing. I drew closer and saw on St Joseph's knee, in cursive script, a plea: 'Help me', it said, 'I have an incurable disease'. The writing ends with a smudge. Elizabeth's name is visible. I imagine the smudging hand placed on the recently applied black letters. I see a head bowed, a desperate request for help read aloud to the Saint. I found this hope, offered amid hopelessness, unbearably touching. I left and lit a candle for Elizabeth. Someone I will never meet, but for whom I hope some succour came. I walked out back into the bright blue, grateful for all I have.

Week 52 - The Cycle of Life

Cycling along by Waterloo Station I am overtaken by another cyclist. Sadly this is an all too frequent event as I am not very aggressive and have a tendency to day-dream while rolling along. He is riding a 'fixie', a bike like mine that has no gears, and he is weaving slightly erratically over the road. To brake he either rests his Doc Martin right boot on the ground or semi-jumps off. The ultimate fixie has no brakes, and you lock the back wheel thereby forcing the bike to skid to a halt. To achieve this the peddles are fixed, so that you cannot free wheel. I chase after the bike and catch him. Gerard is French and is in construction, his bright orange hard hat is hooked over the narrow handle bars. He speaks perfect English but with a comedy twang like Inspector Clouseau or the policeman from the 1980's TV show 'Allo Allo! He was rushing off to the cycling protest 'Die In', at the Transport for London headquarters in Southwark. I hear later a thousand people turned up. Six cyclists have been killed on the London roads in the last fortnight. He has been cycling in London on a bike with no brakes for eight years. He observes no irony. He gave up skid braking after his knees began to fail, and developed his patent Doc Martin brakes. He buys second hand boots and he gets through three pairs a year. He whizzed off into the South London night, I did not need to ask why he had not simply installed brakes. The answer I knew. The fixie is the ultimate in independence- he had built his own bike and his own style of stopping. To conform would have been to 'sell out'.

The London roads are dangerous and potholes seem to proliferate, but the city is wide-open to the careful cyclist, and nowhere is too far away. I spent the week crossing bridges, from the West End up to north London and down to my part of the south. In my sad, simple brain I always think of London being high up in the north part and basically tippling down to the south. This mental canard could not be more wrong. The city rolls and curves and there are high and low points all over the place, thus cycling is never boring. In addition to mobility you can add smell. The city has different smells in different weathers, seasons, and times of day. Right now, in the cold, with all the lights from Christmas decorations swagging the streets, an almost-burning electrical smell dominates. It is a wonderfully evocative aroma. The river smells too, and crossing it first thing in the morning offers a different smell to last thing at night. The roads have mood changes too- there are times of gentleness, times of fraught hurry and times of simple process, when the cars just go from 'a to b'.

Tuesday is often gallery opening night and on this one I visited a trio. Mallett had collaborated with Jules Wright and the Wapping project, and presented on all floors was a mixed show of photography, cathedrals, Japanese temples and intense saturated-colour reportage images of Iran, set amid the panelling and red carpets. The juxtaposition of the images and the furniture was challenging but very effective. This show runs until the 21st December. Then on to David Zwirner who has such a different space. In the period town house he has taken over in Grafton St, he has fashioned the archetypal white wall space. Residing there were white marble island cities and a vast, brightly-coloured palm tree, all by the artist Yutaka Sone. Born in 1965, he has furrowed the same path for the last twenty years and this is the first time these three islands have floated together. The palm tree is another thing altogether, a patchwork of bold colours and rough craftsmanship it seems the epitome of all the intense spirit of its country of fabrication, Mexico. The minimalism of the space and work coupled with the glamorous young folk sipping beer from green bottles made a stark contrast to my previous visit. Here in the absence of colour, the green of the beer bottles stood out like a deliberately conceived aspect of the show. This show runs until the 25th January. Then for my third I went to Thomas Williams'. His small elegant space on Bond St was playing host to a show called JAHANGUIR spaces. Surprisingly the artist is from Zurich, though the name conjures up a further flung locale. The work is bold and graphic, and there were two tall, thin sculptures standing perilously in the middle of the room. He is clearly a master craftsman, but I found that after I had glanced cursorily around the room I felt I had done it! I had reached my saturation point. Bad me!

Over the next few days for various unconnected reasons I found myself cycling around or through Holborn. This part of London contains our Masterpiece exhibitor Koopman in Hatton Garden, and is crammed full of wonderful and curious corners. The redevelopment of the Prudential Assurance building is a marvellous Alfred Waterhouse survival, the red brick fantasy echoes the Natural History museum, and is a lovely quiet corner to pause and let one's eyes cast around. There are modern disappointments but the touching memorial to the company's First World War dead is very affecting. To Leather Lane- it is a frantic lunchtime food market and impossible to cycle down, but seems a real slice of an older London. Then I passed the Russell Hotel- I had never been in and it is an amazing mix of the slightly sad modern with high Victorian magnificent grandeur. It is unrestrained adornment, marble and terracotta on every face, except for the bits modernity has 'restored'. It was built in 1898 and designed by the architect Charles Fitzroy Doll, whose name reputedly gave us the term "dolled up", his use of ornament was so legendary. The design was based on the Château de Madrid on the Bois de Boulogne in Paris. The hotel's restaurant, which is named after the architect, is said to be almost identical to the RMS Titanic's dining room, which was his work too. The furnishings have long gone now and it is an anonymous confection of faux leather and wood. A sad disappointment.

I continued my Holborn adventure drinking in the charming fake that is the Cittie of Yorke pub on Chancery Lane. There has been a pub there since 1430. It looks Dickensian and it is Grade II listed, but it is pretty spurious being a 1920's creation, more Disney than Dickens. However, it has loads of charm, and sitting discussing plans for life in a booth is a pretty bonny experience. By contrast, nearby in High Holborn is the Staple Inn, a real Tudor building that I had always thought was a Victorian fake. It is now home to actuaries. I don't know what to make of the chances of that (ha ha).

On the 1st of July 2007, smoking was banned in bars and restaurants. I dined joyfully that night in The Eagle on Farringdon Road. I lunched there again this week, not an anniversary but a happy return. The Eagle was arguably one of the first, if not the first gastro pub. I am happy to report it is still good. The cramped conditions are managed elegantly by the boss and I was quickly installed before boquerones, arancini of squash and gorgonzola, and a beetroot frittata. All of which were perfect, the first sharp and oily, but not too much, the second hot, spicy and joyfully tangy from the cheese, and the frittata was a sonnet of deep purple colour and aromatic crunch. Not from hunger at all, I then consumed a squid and potato casserole, the soft flesh of the squid was immersed in a tomato sea with the occasional iceberg of a crisp waxy potato to cling on to. Cunningly I ordered two glasses of rosé at once for myself, so as the last mouthful disappeared I had a sip of rosé left to hurry it on its way. I must visit Holborn more often.

Week 51 - The Train Set

Trains and their guardians, train stations, play a huge part in my life. They are playing an increasing role with the cost of petrol and the opportunity to simultaneously play with the internet. The car is super, you leave your house, you enter the warm cosy bubble and then you set off. You listen to music or the radio and you do so at any volume you choose. The appeal is obvious, but nevertheless I love trains. Yes, you have to take the tube or cycle and park like I do. So, thereby you add an extra journey there and back. But walking into one of the magnificent London railway stations is a soul-enriching treat. On Tuesday I head off to the country from the recreated Kings Cross St Pancras I know well from the Eurostar, but Kings Cross station side of it I rarely use. They have taken down the hideous cheap-looking huts that sat like an encampment outside the station. The bold sweep of the arches is now clear and its brick magnificence can be properly enjoyed. Inside they have created a ticket hall at the side of the station which has a marvellously anthropomorphic white tubular metal fan of struts supporting it. Almost art nouveau revived. Enriched with a cup of coffee, I head out. The train rocks, creaks and shuffles its way out, heading past the still active works. Fields soon appear, the houses become more spaced out and I am entering another world. You can muse, reflect and day dream on a journey like this, but before you can say or do much you are getting off at some random station.

Outside London is always colder and has fresher air. Shivering in badly-chosen thin clothes, I wander round one of the last few antique warehouses. My host has found a few things to offer me and he drinks instant coffee and chain smokes, occasionally fidgeting and running his hands over his bald head. I don't drink instant. Even so, I am doubly grateful for my eye-opening cup on the station platform. At the warehouse nothing quite works, and as he mostly shows his stuff to everyone before he shows me, there is not much point in me trying anything I see on my other trade friends. I hop back on the train and swiftly rattle back into London.

My next station is Paddington which has equally recently been refurbished. It is a terrific sweep of multiple iron-glazed arches like a giant conservatory or green house. The new Great Western rolling stock looks wonderful lined up obediently on their tracks, seemingly eager to carry their passengers to exciting destinations such as Exeter St Davids, or Swansea. There is a homely romance to all this. When waiting for a train at the Gare de Lyon it's easy to be seduced by the fabulous 'Train Bleu' or the myriad holiday destinations in the warm south that beckon and tempt. But the UK offerings are just as good- a lovely cup of tea rather than a glass of champagne. Both have their appeal and their moment for perfection. From Paddington I visit a giltwood console table. My experience of the table is not one of love, in fact my conviction was that it was not even old. But my host here took me to his local pub where we sat in a corner and ate. We talked too, the usual moaning about no-one coming to visit and the trade shrinking. I suspect I could bore for England on that subject, having heard it from so many mouths. The conversation moved on to more positive subjects as we drank from beakers a pale blush rosé from Faugères and consumed our warm potted shrimps. Peppery, with a smooth salty tone, they were the perfect beginning. I remembered making potted shrimps in vast quantities one New Year in Norfolk. This is an easy dish but for thirty or so people it was a mission. Luckily I was only the sous-chef, following instruction from my original and elegant temporary boss from English Heritage. Eating self-potted shrimps, especially ones fashioned in such a manner, is a particularly happy memory. Back in the pub the mood improved still further as our pheasant pie arrived at the table. With its fatty crunchy nut brown pastry pouring over its sides our hearts sang, as the first few mouthfuls silenced us. The light but massively flavoursome juices joined forces with equally succulent flesh, and helped on with the pastry we found ourselves suddenly thinking that the antiques business still had hope and with hard work and conviction we would survive and even flourish. An intense little espresso ushered me back on the train and back to the metropolis.

Portobello is my destination for this Saturday morning. I used to visit often, but now I do so rarely. It is an obvious and much discussed truth that the street has changed. Most of the dealers from whom I bought antiques 20 years ago have left or retired. But it survives and great things do still appear, probably every week! Gradually everything is being pushed down the hill. The Admiral Vernon Arcade still throbs and is crowded. Despite the absence of much in the way of art, the street does not care. Quite frankly, walking along after 9.30am requires patience and dogged determination. Portobello is for tourists and a smattering of die-hard dealers and collectors. But I am going to see a specific object that someone has put aside for me. Sadly I don't like it. I feel really guilty, as I had said that if he ever found such a thing I would be sure to acquire it. Like all ones worst clients, I turned down the sure-fire certain sale (in his mind). But all was not lost, because I had breakfast at the Electric House. The post-fire redesigned interior is soft, plush and welcoming and my coffee was pungent and hot. Full English is the greatest culinary contribution that Britain has ever made. Despite being the epitome of formulaic, it still offers, counter intuitively, infinite variety. In this iteration- the chunky and stumpy salt and sweet bacon, the beef tomato grilled with pepper and herbs, the plump perfect brown sausages, the weeping field mushroom, the fried eggs with pert bright orange yolks, rounded off with sourdough toast, crunchy, chewy and warm with butter- all work hard as a team to make my world seem happy in its orbit.

Week 50 - Running to Paris

I began the week with jewellery and the doctor and finished in Paris. A year ago I was called by my local surgery to have a health review. I did not go; I did not want to go. So, the doctor rang me and said that if I did not make an appointment and attend I would be struck off their list of patients. I then proceeded to give the poor person calling a complete earful about the nanny state, interference and the waste of taxpayers' money. I completely lost it, and was roundly rebuked for my trouble both at home and at the other end of the line. Now a year later I was sitting in the office of the very woman I had given such an earful to on the phone. We had never met, and until now she had just been the bodiless recipient of my ire and frustration. As we sat diagonally opposite each other it dawned on both of us exactly who I was. My embarrassment grew and grew. I passed an awkward 10 minutes grovelingly apologising and then left reflecting that I had been to more of a confessional than the doctor.

From there I rushed to the West End to meet with a jeweller who wants to exhibit at Masterpiece London 2014. It is remarkable how successful the show has been for this sector of the market. It has been robust from the start and though naturally a couple of dealers have left we are annually inundated with applications from all over the world. This one did require a personal visit and whilst sitting down looking at a lifetime's achievement and a dazzling array of imaginative and delectable offerings I felt sad that we could not accommodate everyone. But, the fair is about harmony and balance and presenting the best of as many disciplines as we can. Therefore we have a cap and we cannot keep adding to the roster as the show would turn into a jewellery show and not the international comprehensive compendium of scholarship and delight we want it to be.

Off to Pimlico - one of the biggest characters and personalities in Pimlico is the mercurial Will Fisher. He has turned his business Jamb into a thriving concern in English furniture and fireplaces. We have only recently started doing a bit of business together but he has been around for ever. He has an uncanny ability to know what people want and this he achieves by being incredible effusive and charming. He has a wild Tintin-esque swirl of hair and charges around getting things and being everywhere. He has turned his shops on the road into a small country house. I dropped a couple of unusual 17th century ivory hearth brushes I had found and was bewitched by the mise en scène he has created. It is the antique dealing equivalent of supermarkets baking bread - a marvellous ploy. The aura of fresh and new is engendered there, and here in his shop the feeling is that everything comes untouched and honestly to market. It is a very successful formula. Pimlico is full of such individuals. The street has retained energy and a buzz. Buying here is fun.

The first contracts have gone out for Masterpiece and I raced off to Paris to help finalise some of our Parisian dealers' plans. It is a truth that until you sit in front of people they find it hard to concentrate. So, I speed around, bobbing from the carré to the rive gauche encouraging and nuancing each appointment into agreement. I pass by a shop in the rue de Beaune called Gueneau. It is closing down. I feel sad for another trading loss. I hope the old man has not died but I just don't know. He was one of the institutions. He has been there for at least a generation and was never in his shop before 2.30 and often not open at all - it was usually the best policy to pop in to the cafe on the corner where he might have been sipping on an aperitif. Tall, gangly and slightly stooped by age he always had something new on show in the window. He bought across the board and you were as likely to see a piece of Islamic armour as you were to see a Louis XIV tortoiseshell casket. He once had a monumental lathe turned ivory model locomotive in his window. Every dealer in Paris passed by his small shop regularly because there was sure to be some excitement there to feast the eyes on. His pricing too was unpredictable and you needed to always ask because you never knew when an object would be reasonably or astonishingly priced. It is a sad passing and like with a friend passing, I remember the good times we have had together, I recall the wonderful things I have bought from him. Sadly not enough but happy memories none the less.

Paris is endlessly full of surprises and yet I always follow the same path, trudging up and down the same few streets. I find that I rarely stray into the unknown. With a nearly free day following the frantic shuffling I decide to head off into the unknown. I had been to the Marais many times but I thought to wander over there and take pot luck on somewhere to eat. After a longish walk I found myself in this delightful quarter of Paris. We are so used to the grammar of the Haussmann boulevards that we sometimes overlook this area where the 15th and 16th centuries still hold sway. Lunch followed in a delightful small restaurant called Chez Robert and Louise. The smoky open fire ovens and low key atmosphere put me in mind of the period of the local buildings as did the presence of dogs, in particular a charming young black coated puppy that gallivanted around charming and pestering everyone. All combined, it gave the whole a brilliantly period tone. They served robust food too and I feasted on a perfect plate of fried wild mushrooms, thick, coarse, very salty bacon and a mound of scrambled duck eggs, sprinkled with chives, accompanied by soft, yeasty, grain-filled sourdough bread. I had never had duck eggs before and they were an intense combination of strongly scented egg, smooth and creamy, with the most delicate suggestion of a bite. This called for something strong to accompany it and I found a Primitivo from Salento that seemed to fit the bill with its dark colour, ripe berry fruit and spicy finish. I felt as if I had passed back in time to a more wild and robust era. Paris had become the countryside with open fields, Jacob sheep and grazing cattle. I could hear, in my mind, men shooting in the distance and see mist rolling across woodland and fields. As I paid up and headed off to the Gare du Nord I thanked Paris for offering up another treat and time travel too.

Week 49 - Road trip to Namur

You have got to love a road trip. The car, the road, the intense conversations, and people sleeping while you drive. There is a wonderful sense of pastoral care as you drive in darkness and all the other occupants are sound asleep. I don't know why, but I love it.

7 am and we are off to Namur. Stockwell is rammed and no cars are moving. It seems as if we are going to be frustrated and we might as well call the whole trip off from five seconds into the journey! Eventually, Justin from Mallett Antiques is in the car, Francesca, the 'baby giraffe' is curled up in the back, wrapped in a fake fur blanket and snoozing against a fake fur over-scale cushion. She loves these things and no trip can be undertaken without these crucial comforters. Gradually and grindingly we escape the thrall of London and make it to Folkestone. The euro shuttle is painless and we find ourselves driving up the drive to see Paul de Grande. He is one of the trade legends. He has had his ups and downs but he has been in the business for over fifty years. He is grey-haired and totally charming. He is probably the best salesman of his generation. He knows me well- I first came here around 1990. He jokes and gossips but knows everything about his stock and manages in the most subtle way to share his enthusiasm for each item. His glasses somehow managing to enhance his amused twinkle, rather than mask it. We buy well but modestly, and head on to Namur.

Heavy traffic and torrential rain put us a bit behind schedule but we make it to the fair about an hour after the opening. Justin kindly parks as we rush in. Almost immediately we run into Mo Mohtashemi, the brother of Amir. These guys work like they are under execution orders. There is nowhere on the planet you can go where you won't run into one of them. The stand they put up at Masterpiece is always restrained, elegant and modern. But there is nothing restrained about them. They manifest and celebrate an ambition and a love of their works of art that is quite humbling. Mo tells me that he does one hundred thousand miles a year in his car looking for treasures. We visit the stand of Henri Vanhoenaker- he is young and easy-going, and takes life ostensibly at a leisurely pace. So not true! Despite appearances or manner he too is a robo-dealer. He is constantly on the road searching for the next great thing. He deals in Empire and neo-classical work, and he always puts on a great show. We are here as his guests, so we are particularly keen to look hard at what he has brought. Sadly nothing this time, but he is on great form and has done good business, so we don't feel too guilty.

The next stop is Brussels and back to my favourite restaurant Vismet. Brick walls, open kitchen, and basic tables and chairs belie the genius of this place. They love food, and whilst the food is simple they buy incredibly well and handle their food with love and reverence. We drink a Rully which is warm in colour but crisply cold with baby ice shards clinging to its body, rich in character without being heavy. Zeeland oysters with their intense freshness and bright salty character, then Barbue or Brill, a meaty but subtle fish, not much eaten in the UK but popular in Europe. It is like a meaty Sole or subtle Turbot, grilled and accompanied by a light, unassertive, sharp béarnaise-style sauce. Heaven, especially when rounded off with a crunchy topped, smooth and intensely creamy crème caramel.

We race off early the next day, a bag of refined oven-fresh pastries from Charli, the genius baker beside St Catherine's Square warming our way. Accompanied by a bag of saliva-generating cèpes and chanterelles from Champigros next door, we are heading to Wim Berden in Roermond, who is also a legend and a survivor. He has a massive shop in a private house, beside some equally massive warehouses in the same street. He is a big man, not fat, but large in scale. He has fair hair and has a tendency to lumber rather than walk. He is quiet, he does not chat, but that does not make him dull or difficult. He loves works of art, and he is equally tireless in his searches. From him we press on to visit our beloved Bill and Cornelia. They now live in a retirement home and don't buy quite as much as they used to. I suspect they may both be nearly eighty, but I think Francesca would kill me if we did not visit them. Their life and habit is to sit with a bottle of wine, of an evening, and go through catalogues. They buy as a passion and a love rather than as a business. They are immensely charming and time disappears in their company. Their main room is where the best stuff is, then a spare bedroom and finally a cupboard. Somehow we always end up buying from each of their "showrooms". Sadly and reluctantly we bid farewell and head back to Brussels.

Justin leaves us early to head back to London for a wedding. Nick, a member of the Mallett dealing diaspora and someone who has had a gruesome couple of years with changing jobs and a tricky end to a relationship. He has cleverly found love in the arms of a glamorous Russian, and Justin is off to help him celebrate. It is a not a happy ending, but a happy beginning of a new chapter. We all wish him well. Francesca and I head off into town to cover the flea market and the market in Les Sablons, the historic antique district of Brussels. Like in all big cities, the dealers have withdrawn from the main streets and now present their wares just nearby or round a corner. In a prominent side-street is Tom Desmet. He has recently made his son Tobias a partner and he is a young man full of energy and sparkle. He has worked for others over the last few years, including our Masterpiece exhibitors the Tomasso Brothers, and he has a cunning sense of both the past and the future. He is also very charming- many of the art world girls have had crushes on him. We pass by in the street and he asks us in for coffee. We arrive fifteen minutes later and he has delicious well-made espressos and delightful cakes from Pierre Marcolini, the 'enfant terrible' of chocolatiers from Brussels, but increasingly a global brand. Sitting beside sculpture and other artworks, we ruminate on the future. Tobias is full of enthusiasm and is the elegant counterpoint to the older survivors and warriors of the local trade. Folk such as he will give this business its next incarnation, and it is great to observe.

Following a canter round the rest of the district, we head off to see another old friend Joost in Haaltert. He greets us in a warm way, and over our umpteenth coffee we discuss dealers past and present. The final run to the coast follows, and Francesca buries herself in her fake fur nest and I have a quiet but thoughtful final hundred miles. We reach London seemingly before we have left, and the road trip is over. One thousand miles in three days- not hard or arduous, but I sleep like a log, whatever that means.

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Week 48 - An Auction House 'after hours'.

The young men in sharp suits with slicked back hair and thick glossy ties are out in force. Sotheby's is packed. Upstairs on the 10th floor the Giacometti fills the space, as does the Warhol. But these stellar attractions are not the only ones. All the iconic names, from the Impressionists through to the Modern Masters, line the walls like supermodels ready to be taken home by the next generation of plutocrat collectors.

I had taken the subway from 42nd Street up to 79th Street by the Natural History Museum. On the train, a passionate evangelist was berating us passengers for our sins and predicting our imminent destruction. I was bizarrely grateful for my online Spanish course, as I understood quite a lot more about my impending doom than I would have a done a few months ago. It had been raining as I boarded the train but it was a wonderful warm blue sky when I descended but a few minutes later. A hop on the cross-town bus, and I was by the Mallett emporium on Madison Avenue. My erstwhile colleague of over 20 years, Henry, was in residence and he has put together a great small show of fine English furniture. We chat, drink coffee, and walk through the collection. It is quiet in the shop and we are able to have a calm moment to reflect on the surprise that we find ourselves still fascinated, intrigued and charmed by the subject of English furniture.

After a fond farewell, I walk over to Sotheby's and the buzz and hubbub of a well oiled machine. From the 10th floor I go down and see a show by the French designers Les Lallane that is a true 'Alice in Wonderland' moment, as concrete sheep and giant apples vie for attention with Lily-pad garden chairs amid aromatic leaves and astroturf. From there, on to the Alexandre Reza jewels which shimmer and glisten in a magical way that allows one to almost forget the white hot values, and admire the sheer brilliance of both the craftsmanship and the imagination. Finally I saw a few highlights of other sales, including some that I had seen in Hong Kong, and I head off for lunch.

MOMA has a bar-bistro and a restaurant beside it. I meet with our Chairman, Philip, and unexpectedly also Melissa from Christie's. The plan is to have a quick lunch and then head off to the Rockefeller centre to enjoy the shiny staff at Christie's and their assembled Impressionist and Modern masterpieces. Philip is on great form, and Melissa is a revelation. We have known of each other for over 20 years and she is the maestro behind their English furniture sales. She is elegant, tall, well-dressed and apart from being the ultimate professional, I discover she is extremely funny.

Banksy is all the rage in NY at the moment as he has blazed through the city graffittying hither and thither and stirring up a hornet's nest of opinion about what art is. The outgoing Mayor has ultimately spoken that all graffiti should be removed, but Banksy's celebrity means that people are trying to preserve the work. Complex indeed. Outside MOMA, cunning vendors are putting Banksy style stencils over used subway maps, and selling them for 20 dollars. The obvious fierce debate rages at our table and we amuse ourselves all the way through to cheese. The only detour on the way was a nostalgic tour of our varied experiences of eating white truffles- that fabulous, pungently aromatic Italian treasure that arrives briefly in our local delis about this time of year. We discover that we have all had key experiences in a now closed restaurant in Pimlico in London which was called La Fontana. Back in 1985 my mother was so pleased and delighted that I had found a job that she took me out for dinner there on the evening of my first day of work. I was wearing the new shoes, the new suit, and had taken off the new coat that had generously accompanied my new job, rewarding me with the princely salary of £6,000 a year. We had truffles shaved onto our delicately oiled fettucine, and I was a 'goner' for life. The taste and wonder of that moment in my mouth as I told the story and as I write it now. Suddenly we discover that it is 5pm, and Christie's will be shut. At this point my secret unexpected saviour steps up. Melissa will show me around.

Whilst Philip amuses himself doing early Christmas shopping and looking for a white truffle for his supper, we enter Christie's. It is virtually empty. The usual hum now a soft tread as the guards are almost the sole occupants. A few waiters skitter around with trays- clearly there is going to be a party later on. We walk though the ground floor. As with Sotheby's, there is a cavalcade of masters. But we have them to ourselves. Bronzes, terracotta works, oils, works on paper all are there to admire or dislike in total privacy. It felt like our own private collection. Then we went out to the lobby and down the ramp to gallery six to see the Francis Bacon triptych. It is huge, the colours are amazing and it is an obvious masterpiece- an introspective work by and of an artist, playing with contexts of religion, renaissance painting and an analysis of the nature of figurative painting. I am sure it will make a record price.

In the same room is a massive Koons balloon dog. It is vast and dominates the space. It is also very shiny and we quickly discover that is like a fairground hall of mirrors. The curves distort and shift our reflections in myriad and increasingly hilarious ways. We while away a frivolous few minutes taking silly pictures of ourselves in the reflections. Then I notice the small abstract canvas hanging round a corner. It is, of course, a Jackson Pollock. Painted in 1949, it is an extraordinary work. The sweeps, swirls and dribbles of paint speak of such passion and intensity that you can almost sense the breath of the artist on your neck as you stand before it. I just stand and stare, and I pass through some magical field imagining the harsh world of 1949, the Second World War and the paranoia about communism dominating contemporary minds, and I feel humble in front of this work of genius. I am not emotional in front of art- I don't leap for joy or fall into a heap of tears, but I felt a lump in my throat out of respect for the endeavour and wonder for this 'thing' and I had to move on to avoid being embarrassing. I bade a hasty but fond farewell to my saviour, and headed off into the twilight.

The clocks go back in the USA tonight and the Marathon is being run. I am off home to London in the morning and I worry that I will miss my plane. But all is well, and squished into an economy seat beside a man writing a report about a bank who manoeuvres around the largest laptop I have ever seen, I watch movies all the way back to London.

Week 47 - The Arts Caravan Moves to NY

I am in New York, and yes, I am visiting another art fair- this one is the International Fine Art and Antique Dealers Show, New York. We are in Park Avenue at the 7th regiment Armory, that wonderful fusion of the martial with the apogee of American Art Nouveau. The Tiffany rooms are one the great sweeps of design on the planet. This is the big season in the 'The Big Apple', and everyone is now here. There are the major 'fall' sales going up at Christie's and Sotheby's in a week or so, where the signature lots of the season will be sold. Christie's have secured for sale the Francis Bacon triptych, 'Three Studies of Lucian Freud' dating back to 1969, and Sotheby's have Andy Warhol's 1963 'Silver Car Crash (Double Disaster)'. It will be a true clash of the titans.

At the Armory fair there are a few dealers who had stands in Hong Kong, then London and now here in Manhattan, and they are a tough, hard-bitten crew indeed. They take no prisoners. Like old school rodeo stars, their myriad tumbles have given them world weariness, but also a strength and resilience. They retain their sense of enthusiasm for another ride- a 'back in the saddle!' approach. They smile and are as enthusiastic as ever.

The fair itself is dark and serious with the traditional line of aisles with brightly lit treasures on show. The famous doors are as heavy as ever and as you heave and force your way in, you feel on familiar ground. The opening is splendid and glittering. The dealers are elegant, suited and tied, and talk in hushed tones about their offerings. The clients look around and kiss their friends and quaff and consume as enthusiastically as possible. The mood is jovial, friendly, even collegiate.

Afterwards, I dine with a museum friend and he has ordered in a veritable sea of sushi. Sadly we toy with our food, sated by fair goodies. We drift off home tired and full of the impressive grandeur of another show in the Armory. The next day Nazy, Masterpiece Chief Executive and I go down to one of our Masterpiece exhibitors Leila Heller. She is promoting the work of dandy photographer, Ike Ude. There is a gallery talk and lunch at the relatively new Americano hotel round the corner. The group is passionate, eclectic and engaged. The artist is definitely peculiar, but in a good way. We admire the eccentricity of his vision and then dine. I sit next to an amazing authoress who is delving into the complexities of Iranian women and their history. She has memories of both the Shah and his aftermath. I have rarely met anyone who expressed such a sober, calm and patient attitude to the perceived need for change.

The day ended with a dinner just off Canal Street in a new restaurant with my ex-colleague and now successful dealer in mid-century design, Nick, and his amazing wife. She is re-defining photography and teaching a class. The restaurant is buzzing. It has only been open a fortnight and all the staff are as keen as mustard to help us have a good time. The day could not have been a more stark counterpoint to the previous. Not simply youth versus age or even knowledge versus learning but actually more a difference of approach. The day was full of optimism for the unknown, the adventure ahead. It is not a question of commitment or scholarship. It is not a question of price or business process. It is fundamentally a question of optimism.

In Chelsea, the mood is very intense, amid the 'bruhaha', the bars, the restaurants and at the highline you have all the big contemporary galleries. People come to look and they come to buy. Chelsea has a confidence that Uptown lacks. Every gallery in Chelsea has a polished concrete floor, white walls which don't quite touch the floor. Lights sparkle and glass windows are expansive.

However there is a very surprising sense of conventionality compared to Uptown. The art in Chelsea is varied but the framework is formulaic. Uptown, by contrast, the variety and colours are hugely diverse. No two stands look the same. Russian marble consoles from the late 18th century sit alongside Impressionist paintings, which in turn sit beside fabulous jewels or silver. If originality and interest are what you are seeking, then search no further. The reality is that the galleries in Chelsea are rammed, and the Armory is not.

We decide to take a trip to Brooklyn and visit Prime Meats in Court Street. After taking the rumbling, infrequent train walk down the low-rise leafy streets to arrive in a corner restaurant which could almost be an English pub. We are welcomed heartily despite being nearly a half an hour late, and we dive into what they call 'bloody Maria's butch', which I know as a 'Mexican Mary'. Fabulous, fruity, spicy Bloody Marys, but made with tequila as the lighter fluid. A great start. Then burgers, with fat crunchy bacon that tastes of pork rather the crispy saltiness one usually finds, and soft, tender pickles which have an aroma of herbs and spices as well as traditional vinegar. We finish with a cliché, cheesecake. This is a really classic cheesecake that sticks to your teeth and has a crunchy salty sweet biscuit base. All accompanied by New York State sweet white wine that scintillated with a burnt raisin taste that enhanced the cheesecake beyond measure.

After lunch, we wander the area, taking in the extraordinary difference between the local scene and the intense bustle half an hour away on the train. We stopped by a junk shop and one of our group bought a little cast iron stand with a marble top, which he was going to use as a table in his apartment. The sun was warm and the streets wide. We felt as if we were having a weekend away in the Cotswolds. Admittedly it was a slightly dystopia-like view. Looking down side streets there were terrible sights of industrial wastelands. However, the parallel streets of Court and Smith were charming and full of interest.

We sped back to the city to meet with a friend from Sotheby's. He is such a delight. Eager, enthusiastic, prone to tears in front of art, he is the kind of person who makes others fall for the art world. Despite having been worn ragged by constant work, his eyes still widen with his passion for it all. We eat at the Trump Hotel, the Jean Georges, where a civilised fusion of peekytoe crab and a smoked salmon carpaccio helped by a few glasses of not-too-cold Sancerre end the week for us.

Week 46 - Deep Frieze

The heavy wagons of the contemporary art world have rumbled into London. Christies and Sotheby's have punched sales up, with the evenings offering each around 50 lots and totals reaching over £20 million, backed up by day sales of about £10 million. By way of contrast, and to give an idea of the importance of this market there were decorative arts sales last week in New York which both brought in just over $2 million, or to keep it in the same currency about £1.3 million. PAD has emerged from the LAPADA chrysalis in Berkeley Square, and Regent's Park plays host to the leviathan Frieze fairs. Frieze Masters is the bigger draw for me, but the main show is equally, if not more, astonishing. There are a lot of people and there is a lot of money in town.

Faced with so much to see and do, I began the week drinking champagne. The stupid o'clock Eurostar. Getting to the train for 5 am required a cycle ride to St Pancras at 4.30 am. Luckily it was not raining and the brisk cycle through a quiet London was a joy. I have never enjoyed the Elephant and Castle double roundabouts so much. They flew past. Up over London Bridge, the Thames looking sluggish and moody- I peddled onwards to the station. I chained up my bike, full of energy and raring to go. Seemingly an instant later and before most Londoners get to work, the train deposits me at the gare du Nord. A brief walk follows, to the charming but impressive gare de L'Est. I meet up with my wine-making friend and his 'chef de cave', and we are on our way to Reims, everyone in good spirits for the oenological adventure ahead.

Since Ruinart became the champagne sponsors for Masterpiece, I have grown from being a fan to being an ardent devotee. This year at the fair I became addicted to the rosé
champagne. They make two, Ruinart and Dom Ruinart. My advice to all is to avoid the Dom. It is so astonishingly delicious you will penury yourself! The standard champagnes have a Dom too, and that is equally ridiculous. Last year, Nicola and I were invited to the château for lunch and a tasting. They plied us and entertained us, and we staggered back to London delighted and unsteady. This time, the two Frederics, the president Dufour and the chef de cave Panaiotis, had agreed to do the same for my friend. His wine making business in Hungary Sauska wines is up and coming, and he is just beginning to make 'Methode champenoise'. He is not using Pinot noir and Chardonnay, however. He is making wines from the Hungarian local grapes Furmint and Harslevelu. He is doing something incredibly hard, but as rewarding as it is challenging. We are being given an hour with Frederic P, and he is amazing, kindly sacrificing time from the harvest. He is an eager, direct, highly-focused wine obsessive. Spare and trim of form, he wastes no time and spells out the handling, nitrogen, pressing and fermentation processes at Ruinart in exquisite detail. It becomes apparent that though the great champagne house are physically close, for obvious reasons, their wine making philosophies are radically different. At each stage, from planting to bottling, there is room for debate and difference. The professionals discussed and I sat quietly sipping Dom Ruinart. I could not share any wisdom but I could swallow. They all spat it out, I consumed as heroically as was dignified.

Lunch at the magnificent les Crayeres hotel brought another masterclass. The food was as elegant as the surroundings, and my grilled kidneys with morelles mushrooms were distractingly good. But the magical thing was listening, as Frederic D gave my friend advice on how to market the wine. It was equally clear, true and as passionately expressed as that of his namesake. The day concluded as we headed off to the station, but not before we had time to sit and reflect on the fact that Ruinart is clearly in fantastic shape, with two very strong hands at the wheel.

PAD is elegant and stately, with wide aisles surreally punctuated here and there with massive trees. The interior is a total contrast to the claustrophic atmosphere that was here but a few short weeks before. The dealers seem chirpy and though the aisles were far from crowded on the day I went, there was a mood of confidence. There was a lot of serious art and the French were there in force. But the most amusing stand was that of Tim Jeffries of Hamilton Gallery. He had constructed a bondage chamber in one side of his stand, with raunchy photographs enhanced by chains and black leather. He had won the stand prize and not surprisingly as it was witty, challenging and showed off the art well.

Frieze Masters was amazing. The dealers had pulled out all the stops. The international trade had gathered in this sober festival of grey to bring great work. True it was basic, true the restaurants are squashed in at the back, but the overall effect is one of a gathering of excellence. The dealers looked eager and optimistic and I think enough business was done. I sat down briefly beside Mathew, the owner and founder, and congratulated him. He seemed exhausted but well, and so he should be- the fair is, once again, the talk of the town.

Sunday I had set aside for the main Frieze, but it began badly, with the unpleasant discovery that our side passage had been broken into and four precious bicycles had been stolen. My almost new Toni Bevilaqua, both my sons bikes, and, weirdly, an old dog of a bike that my wife occasionally rides. Astonishingly my Van Moof was left behind, and the reason became clear later on. The police arrived and took my pathetically pointless statement. Then we looked at the door, which had a massive foot print by the lock. Forensics came up from Croydon and took a print of it, Nike apparently, easy to tell from the tread. I had not chipped or 'frame registered' any of the bikes, so bye bye! I felt really sad for all us, including the bikes. It is sort of like virgins being sold off to be slaves. Their next owners will treat them roughly and they will probably end up in some degraded state. My poor bikes!

But, my motto has always been," every loss is a shopping opportunity in disguise". So we head off into town to buy a bicycle. Several shops later we find ourselves further depressed. There is nothing out there we like and the knowledge of the shop assistants is both lamentably small or they are unpleasantly pushy. We repair to Villandry in Great Portland Street, ostensibly to have a quick lunch before heading into the Frieze maelstrom, having failed on the bike-front. Lunch is delightful. Villandry is consistently good, stylish, good service, great, not-imaginative food. A glass of crisp cold Prosecco, dressed crab and a delicious burger with bacon, and the world is beginning to look right again. But the heavens have opened. Rain is falling in torrential proportions. We naughtily head for the car, but are stopped by a small bike shop call Velorution. The owner is wise and grey haired and the shop is elegant and the bikes are beautiful and well explained. Despite the downpour my sons and I try out several and finally fall for an all black beast of a bike, the Leader 725, built around the ethos of the New York couriers. It is light, well-balanced and very fast. They set it up for us, increasing the ratio of the single gear. Downstairs in the workshop there are two identical bikes, just bought by a legend of English football for himself and his son. There are only two hundred and fifty of these bikes in the UK. He tells there is an unexpected boon to buying a rare bike. Thieves don't take them as they are too easily traced. Hence the survival of my Van Moof. aha! We end the day excited by the whole bike experience and heartened against the sadness of our loss.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

Week 45 - Poached eggs and cold feet

Some weeks start on Sunday, some on Monday, and every now and again you encounter a rogue week. This was one of those. Last week obdurately hung on until Tuesday night when I landed back in London from Hong Kong. The swiftness with which the fair was wrapped up and disappeared was fleet, bordering on astonishing. Hardly had the last stragglers meandered away when pouring out from behind a flimsy curtain flowed an army of packers. With them came labourers who immediately began stripping of the carpet. The hall became weird as the sticky back carpet was peeled away like some huge plaster from the skin. The concrete squealed and screamed like a disgruntled child. Our treasures were carefully labelled and wrapped in packing swaddling and we disappeared. I left them with my mobile number and an instruction to only call if there was a breakage. No calls ensued! The next day I pootled about, drove to the airport and flew back to London in a haze of movies. I think I watched six films!

My week began on Wednesday. A few months ago I went to Spitalfields market accompanying Mrs Sungoose on an early morning costume jewellery hunt. Whilst she truffled around, like a greedy magpie entranced and attracted to all the shiny things, I wandered around increasingly cold and disgruntled. After a while I spotted a dealer selling scientific instruments. Glimmering and flickering in purple sat an enormous Tesla orb. I have been a fan of Nikola Tesla since childhood; he was the acme of the mad scientist. He invented AC (alternating current) and he invented many other things too, electric roads and stuff. But his real failure was that he believed and worked for the common good and he hoped to improve the lot of mankind. His ideas were taken up by some but he ended his life in poverty and obscurity in a New York hotel obsessed by numbers, pigeons and bedevilled with crippling OCD. I recommend anyone to look him up- a truly fascinating man. I am proud to have stood at Tesla corner in New York. This orb was huge, quite a multiple of the ones you see in trinket and toy shops. I bought it for my former employers- they hated it and made me buy it. I have just sold it at the Battersea fair and so I am back at Spitalfields hoping for lightning to strike twice (literally, the orb is controlled lightening). It doesn't yield one, but I am just as cold as the last time I was here, so there is consistency there. We arrive at about 8am and the stall holders are unpacking. It is a far cry from Avignon, but there is an echo. The market itself takes place in the Foster and Partners structure, rebuilt in the remnants of the old market. There has been a market here since the mid 17th century, and you can feel the ghosts of bygone traders even though their bones are a memory.

After a while I give up and head off for breakfast in the coffee shop and restaurant that stands beside the market in Brushfield Street.

A few months ago it was called the English Restaurant. Now it has enigmatically rebranded itself as Bar and Restaurant, a British variant on the ever popular American concept "no name bar". It gives the impression of having been in situ since time immemorial. Though the building itself looks 18th century, I assume the place is pretty new. But at this early hour they know the way to deliver me warmth and content. A perfect coffee- seven grams of coffee, pressed down to exquisite compactness, and then hot water squeezed through. An eye-openingly fresh and berry-rich flavour. Not a jot of bitterness, not an iota of sourness, or that evil scent of burnt that ruins many an espresso. The thick pale brown crema gives, as its name implies, a creamy quality to the whole cup thereby proving, once again, the total lack of need for milk in this ambrosiac beverage.

Two pert poached eggs with almost orange yolks sit coquettishly on a short stack of sourdough. An embarrassingly short space of total silence follows resulting in an empty plate and that all encompassing inner warmth that comes from the combination of a winter breakfast with hunger and culinary delight. Beside us sat a table laden with cakes, the temptation to stay and eat my way through the day in a celebration of greed and English food was powerful, but the office beckoned. No treasures, but I felt warm as I sped off to Liverpool Street tube.

Given that travel is an integral part of my life it surprises me to acknowledge that I have never been to Finsbury Park. After a tube ride of singular boredom and directness on the epically noisy Victoria line, we wend our way to our friends, Chris and Melissa. Chris has been cursed with debilitating arthritis for as long as I have known him. But he bears his burden with equanimity. His beautiful wife Melissa and he has fashioned an extraordinary alchemical relationship. They are totally unfettered, unrestricted and completely experimental in all they do, his arthritis a speed bump, not a limitation. He is quite peculiar-looking, sporting a hair-cut that resembles something from the Middle Ages- pendulous fair hair to chin length, with a curl inwards at the bottom. He has a liking for the fez and often wears the most individual clothes. His face is mobile and animated but also strangely unformed, like soft clay. You feel strong hands could remodel it. However, he and his family travel and trek widely, and he has written the definitive travel log for visitors to Tusheti (look it up). Domestically, he is a rare genius of passion and obsession. He tells me, whilst his family nod in exhausted agreement, that he has been working on a chicken casserole recipe for over 20 years. It began as a European dish, and has now absorbed influences from India, the Middle East and Morocco. We did not eat it, but I hope for an opportunity in future. We dine on, amongst other things, the best bruschetta I have ever had. A simple dish which simply requires everything to be perfect. I have never had the oil, garlic, spring onions, peeled tomatoes and sourdough in such immaculate proportion. Even the size of the charmingly, savagely chopped tomatoes sent a frisson down my spine. We finished and began the meal with alcohol he had made. A sparkling rosé to begin, that was aromatic with skin and fruit but delighted with a very subtle and seductive bubble. We finished with a potato vodka combined with a pear eau de vie (redolent of Hungarian Palinka). He is an obsessive and a perfectionist, so the bottles are considered as passionately as the contents. The ridiculously smooth crystal clear potato vodka bursts into life with the addition of slightly cloudy pear. Chris finished the meal telling us of his project to create his own perfect knife. He was going to harden the steel and carve and decorate the handle. Chris is a true renaissance man and it is hard to keep up with his creativity and his passion. Melissa cooked the perfect apple tart, and the combination of pastry and fruit was heaven, but Chris is a hard act to keep up with.

The week ended with rain and cold, watching my son Inigo row on the Thames. Barnes Bridge, no oil painting, was particularly grey, and as I stood around, stamping my feet to arrest the cold, waiting for the thirty-five seconds of action as he shot from under the bridge into the distance, I could not help but be grateful for my bright red Masterpiece umbrella.

Week 44 - Fine Art Asia

A seven hour time difference and an eleven hour flight can mess with your head. I am in Hong Kong and the boxy red taxi is speeding me to the Grand Hyatt Hotel. I'm in a state of confusion about what time it is and how hungry I am. My colleague, Nicola, is cool, calm and collected but I feel deeply baffled. I have been here before, a couple of years ago, but it is still as alien as anything. The voices have a lyrical cadence and the bright lights and tall buildings inspire a complex chain of reference. What I see is a hybrid of New York and Naples in Italy with a bit of the film Bladerunner thrown into the mix. I am overexcited and wiped out in equal measure.

We are on our way to the Fine Art Asia fair, which is on the fifth floor of the Hong Kong Convention centre. Two floors down the massive and numerous escalators, Sotheby's is in full swing preparing for their fandango of jewels, pictures, wines, ceramics, furniture and highlights from around the world. The convention centre is enormous and full of a myriad of events. Many events only last a day and we see tsunamis of people washing in and out. One day there is a deluge of small girls in ballet costumes, the next we see red shirted canon camera fans clogging each and every hall way, literally thousands of them. Cameras hanging off them like strange skin ailments and their logo emblazoned t-shirts worn like Boy Scouts.

The fair build is painless, amazingly the tapestry of periods and media fall together in good order. We breathe a sigh of relief as our catalogues arrive, and though I get hot and bothered, it all gets done. Nicola and I retire to the hotel. It is rather weird, I find that I am in a sort of art-dealing holiday resort. The Convention centre is connected without having to go outside of the Grand Hyatt or the Renaissance Hotel. At the 11th floor you can pass between the two hotels by a pool and a skyline view of the Kowloon. I can swish seamlessly from dealers, to Sotheby's staff, to clients and then back to bed and do the same in reverse. We sit in the lounge and drink a glass of Ruinart champagne. It is like being back at Masterpiece London. The only difference being that we are on the other side of the fence. Here we are the exhibitors, plying our wares and aspiring to make sales or meet clients for the future.

On the opening day we are introduced to Chantal, our translator. She is our sharpest interface with China, or rather Hong Kong. She can speak almost perfect English, Mandarin and Cantonese. She is modern and worldly-wise but in equal measure quiet, polite and deferential in a way I have never encountered in Europe. Life is tough in Hong Kong. Jobs are hard to come by and the cost of living is astronomical. She is an art student, as is her sister. Amazingly, she and her boyfriend dream of moving to Edinburgh to work and embrace nature. She is an ardent vegetarian and is appalled by the local passion for all meat and especially pork. She wants daily walks into the Scottish country side- that is her fantasy future. Her sister paints wonderfully subversive traditional Chinese scroll landscape paintings. For example she features a Hermes shop that looks like a temple, to satirise the corruption of Chinese culture. Chantal makes porcelain shoes that sit together as a parallel for the nuclear family.

Chatting on the stand to Chantal about her huge Samsung telephone, I demonstrate how flimsy and small my iphone is. As I turn it over in my hand I, somehow manage to flick it onto the floor. It lands theatrically a few feet away and the face is shattered. I internally weep at my foolishness, especially considering what my phone has been through over the last few months. The face is totally crazed and I realise that I will have to get busy to fix it. The next morning I head off on the metro, which is bright, airy clean and super efficient to the IFC shopping mall where a huge Apple store resides. I enter and a keen young sales assistant bowls up and with a broad smile and a charming tone informs me that there is absolutely no hope of getting any help or support from them. So, what do I do? I decided to head off to the market area around Wan Chai. A amazing district where live green crabs wrapped and bound in bamboo shoots sit cheek by jowl with knock off designer fashion, jade carvings and cut price cigarettes. I wander for an hour hoping to spot an eager trader sitting surrounded by a mound of telephone parts keen to restore my phone. But unfortunately nothing. Then I had an inspiration. I switched on web browser on my crazed face phone and searched for "iphone repairs" a moment later through the cracked ice, I espied 'Mac win' in Kowloon. My saviour, swiftly called, was elegantly named Mr Love. Hailing from India he had not learnt Chinese but was earning a good living fixing the cracked screens of the local ex pats. Miracle of Miracles, I had found love in Hong Kong! Two hours later on the 11th floor flat of the Imperial building in Canton St opposite the leviathan of trading Harbour City, I was lectured about the parlous state of my phone. He was so shocked/delighted by my Danube-doused phone that he took pictures of the rusty insides and changed my battery (apparently the battery was on the brink of exploding, an exaggeration that I enjoyed, but so pleased was he to see such a wretched battery that he was going to post it on an iphone repairs forum). I left to return to the fair with a phone boasting a clean interior, a new screen and a new battery. If it could, my phone would have looked smug.

Because of the time difference my contact with London and the Battersea fair was necessarily intermittent. But the team had done well, selling a few pieces and connecting with the friendly, dog-tastic crowd in a highly effective way. Mrs Sungoose and Francesca have pulled it off. It was both relieving and distressing to appreciate how superfluous I was.

The fair is coming to an end. The last day is Monday, and we have run out of catalogues, with a day to go. Over two thousand have been given out and our small but elegant confection of masterpieces have been photographed, examined, discussed and generally lionised. It is beyond doubt that the local crowd were fascinated and eager to learn. Chantal stands with a stack in her hands and each visitor has a copy presented to them. She looks sad when they turn down the free offer. I ask her if she is okay, she boldly answers that "it is their loss!" she can cope with the rejection. So she says, but her face tells a different story, each denial is a whiplash.

I have just had dinner with the Dutch Chinese art dealers the Vandervens, at the Four Seasons hotel. They are a husband and wife team, second generation in the business and full of energy and passion for the business. The fancy three Michelin star Chinese restaurant Lung Keen Heen cossets and coaxes dish after dish into you. Deep fried black dumplings, lobster in egg white soup, chopped beef in lettuce wraps, and ending the meal a stack of interestingly textured, delicately flavoured jellies and sweetmeats, accompanied by a wine aromatically flavoured with Osmanthus and goji berries, with a soft pink colour. A true taste novelty. There is a wedding reception taking place in the hotel and the corridors hum with happy noises and glamorous locals in silks and black tie. The view out across the bay glitters against the black sky. The whole city delights, and it is hard to focus on the company or the food. The senses are all assailed and delighted.