In a powdery basement storeroom in Hammersmith, with vaulted ceilings lavish with cobwebs, I was searching with a French antiques dealer for the perfect fireplace. It’s the nearest I’ve ever come to an archeological dig. The fellow had 1,700 examples in stock, all of them in pieces: heads, bodies and tails. You spied a shapely reeded leg here; there a mantel shelf; and over there in the corner an elaborate fruited frieze, and then you had to assemble them all together in your mind: a mental flat-pack, if you like. The room smelled like a cathedral, just as vast amounts of old marble should. It was thirsty work. How I longed for a flask.

Few of the fireplaces were suitable, it transpired, as they were French and too low for the room. “They’ll look stuck on,” I was told, and it seemed this would render me somehow ridiculous. I’m not the sort to go for what’s correct rather than what I like – or am I? I wondered. It’s nice to be immaculate, but it’s not natural. I was just enjoying the question when the dealer nodded approvingly at a rather handsome corbelled pair of fire surrounds. “If you get these and then you decide to move in five years, they’ll sell the house for you,” he said.

“But I’m not going to move for decades,” I told him. (In fact, I plan to move in 35 years and then find a small flat in Mayfair and wear navy silk jersey exclusively and a lot of heart-shaped diamonds. Blueberry-hearts, I believe they’re known as in the trade; the plump ones, not the long skinny ones.)

“You never know what’s going to happen in life,” the fellow continued. “I mean, you could inherit a castle.” It was a surprising comment from someone wearing ruptured tennis shoes. I tried to see myself through his eyes. I was dressed like a dodgy uncle in none-too-pristine tweed. What did he take me for?

“Even if I killed every single one of my relations, Alec Guinness-style, I wouldn’t inherit a castle,” I confessed. “Sorry about that.” It felt like a failing on my part. The dealer looked at me a little differently then. His eyes narrowed but he stuck to his theme. “Well, you might win a castle in a competition.”

That was high fantasy indeed. What brand of cereal did he get?

Yet having the fellow situate me in a castle was oddly inspiring. Did he see me in the kitchen: the kindly, uniformed cook, framed by 50 copper saucepans in descending sizes, ladling out hot stock and fanning a scarlet hand to displace the steam? I like the idea of being a lady’s maid. It’s almost as good as being a backstage dresser, I’d have thought: laying out Madam’s silks and jewels, listening to her heartaches, inheriting her gowns when she grew too fat. Hmm.

I have stayed in castles now and then and it seems to me that, like so much of life, it’s all about the scones. But to win one in a competition? Has that ever, in the history of the world, happened?

. . .

Years ago, to counteract anxiety, I subscribed to a magazine that listed every single competition that was being run in the UK, complete with excellent advice on entry procedure, rules and regulations, slogan composition, that sort of thing. Some years puns were in, some years it was all about rhymes and alliteration. Franglais was all the rage for a while, calling someone a crudité as though it were an insult, etc etc. You had to stay ahead of the game. Some of the subscribers to this magazine made their living through entering competitions. There was a surprising prize-exchange column at the back, where you could swap your fourth Caribbean holiday of the year for a canteen of cutlery and a washing machine. I spent hours completing apt and original slogans to impress large corporations: “Grand Prix champions celebrate with Herta frankfurters because ... A Herta dinner’s a certain winner!” Or: “At SpudULike ... we cater for ev’ry taste in potata.” The funny thing was I never actually mailed any of my entries and, as even the most amateur comper knows, you have to be in to win.

“Don’t suppose you have anything with cherubs on?” I asked the fireplace vendor innocently, not knowing it was the wrongest possible thing.

“No call for them whatsoever,” came his swift retort. “Most of them are fake, you see.”

Oh!

“There must be something,” I protested, pointing to a handsome specimen in statuary marble. “Do you think that one would work?”

“Maybe,” he mumbled, but he was growing tired of me. “Not sure I’ve got anything here for you,” he mumbled.

Castle-less for all eternity, I wasn’t of much interest to him perhaps.

susie.boyt@ft.com
More columns at www.ft.com/boyt