This September’s West Meon Hut Rural Auction – or, so it can have its name that is correct Sale – had been an occasion of considerable sadness for me.
It will have already been the right time: the farm had been too damp to accomplish any agriculture, it a pressure wash and a hint of grease, and trundling down to the auction field so we had a jolly few days digging crap out of the bushes, giving.
The stayed dry, and the burgers and coffee were top-notch saturday. The punters had been in and purchasing – the vehicle park ended up being chock high in Transit vans that on other time of the season will have had you reaching for the phone. What exactly was wrong?
Well, to begin with, Tom, the relative mind auctioneer, had forgotten our contract.
Early in the day into the year, he’d demanded to understand why we didn’t make more usage of their Crap Sale.
We ummed and aahed about being forced to clamber through brambles and having drenched and is it actually well well worth it – most of the typical material.
If I entered half-a-dozen items, he’d do the auction in his morning suit and top hat that he’d been spotted wearing in the winner’s enclosure at Ascot so it was suggested (after a pint or two) that. Sigue leyendo