Daydream Believer

I drift in and out of people's homes every working day.

In the busier times of the year this could be one property on the hour, every hour between 10am and 4pm allowing time for travelling, snacking, becoming distracted by the sight of a flock of geese in flight and the occasional stop for a power nap.

A common factor regardless of type, size and value is that somewhere in the house the television or multiple televisions will be switched on. I can therefore look forward to a snapshot of the broadcast content of daytime TV.

My overall opinion is that I am extremely thankful to be employed and therefore able to choose not to be subjected to the bland, meaningless and ultimately frivolent nature of the output.

My day of wandering voyeurism usually starts with being confronted by one of those programmes where members of the public willingly and gleefully reveal what they have been up to and with whom when they should know better and perhaps think about getting out and meeting people other than close relatives. It is quite compulsive viewing, however, and I may be seen to linger awhile in the room supposedly engrossed in the search for dampness, saggy floorboards or electrical sockets but otherwise absorbed in all the confessions of sordid and disgraceful behaviour. I invariably have to vacate the premises before the big reveal of the show where the results of a lie detector or paternity test are revealed to a studio audience either sobbing in sympathy or ready to form a lynch mob. I have however already come to my own conclusions on the guilt or not of persons involved  from the snippets of information I have been able to assimilate by eavesdropping from various locations in the house. One day it would be interesting to compare my judgement with the actual outcome.

By my next appointment it is time for the first of the property programmes where presenters escort prospective, but ultimately doomed and failed, purchasers around a series of homes usually well beyond their budgetary range. It is a rich seam of themes and connotations with escaping to the country, escaping out of the country or just escaping from reality being most prominent. The wealthy house hunters have a budget of seven figures at their disposal and consequently the producers do not need to stray anywhere out of London and the Home Counties unless there is a small working class town to be had for the same sort of money up north.

Unfortunately most of the series shown today are hopelessly out of date and this is usually acknowledged in the final credits with the admission that prices mentioned were those from the boom years 2005 to 2008. In their favour the TV companies have moved with the economic times and day time content includes shows where someones home, hopes and aspirations, accumulated in the boom years, can be purchased at auction for a few pence following its Repossession by the mortgage company. Under the hammer it may be called but under the cosh it is more like.

By lunchtime it is casual chat show time. My favourite involves four women who discuss deep rooted and topical issues with considerable knowledge and compassion but always make sure that the subject is steered back to sex, their own middle age type, as quickly as possible.

Early afternoon marks the emergence of programmes loosely based on the antiques market.

This can range from strangers raiding your personal possessions, carefully archived in the loft, and forcing you to part with them thankfully and with grace in a Sale Room to haggling and pressurising already down at heel dealers to part with their stock at, frankly, a shameful discount. Not wanting to appear greedy in front of intrusive camera and production crews they always concede but may well cry into their Toby jugs and Lalique Vases in the back room of the shop later.

My conclusion from watching the antique themed programmes is that the demand for curious, collectibles and ephemera is virtually zero. Teams competing to sell at a profit always struggle to accumulate mere pence and suffer the humiliation at the hands of the cravat and blazer wearing experts for their purchases which are invariably based on emotion and nostalgia and not the latest Millers Antiques Price Guide.

There is often desperation in the voices of the so called experts as their own sourced, reasoned and validated star lots crash and burn at th auction rooms. Still, I could have told them that the market for embroidered quilted smoking jackets is a bit fragile at present, what with the recession, the health implications over tobacco and us being in the 21st Century and not the 19th.

The patter of many of the now celebrity status Specialists as they sit in a field and receive those hopefully bearing a previously unknown Rembrandt, Clarice Cliff rarity of a full set of Wade Whimseys probes cleverly to reveal the facts of the item.

One man turned up with a stuffed dog. The authority on taxidermy was enthralled and regailed the man on the rarity and beauty of his possession. It was a truly great find. "Did he  know", the expert enquired "what it would fetch in good condition?". "Sticks" was the reply.