Antiques Roadshow

"This is a fascinating piece. Can you tell me a little bit about it?"

There was a short, expectant pause as the assembled crowd waited for a reply.

On such a warm summer's day, the grounds of Ponsonby Hall were thronged with earnest craggy-faced characters of advancing years with dubious dress sense and one common aim -- they were all craning to get into camera shot. Eric Mackay, decked out in a three-piece Prince-of-Wales check suit, had had to manoeuvre his portly frame down on both knees on a picnic blanket to properly inspect the item on display. In doing so, he'd worked up a light sheen of perspiration and had to rescue his gold-rimmed monocle from the end of its string.

"It's something I've always had." Lady Sarah Maitland, the Fourth Duchess of Ponsonby, spoke coolly, sat at a slight recline on a gilded rococo chair with silk padding depicting brightly-coloured birds of paradise and the tropical jungle. "A family treasure." She let her perfectly manicured fingernails inch the hem of her summer dress up infinitesimally.

The hot July sun kissed the warm caramel tones of her thighs. Eric tried to stifle a small gasp before continuing.

"Whilst this type of item is not uncommon..," he began nervously, checking for her ladyship's disapproval. Lady Sarah merely ignored him with perfect detachment.

"...This is a particularly fine example of a style we don't see very often."

Eric congratulated himself for controlling his breathing long enough to reach the end of his sentence. He glanced up for a reaction from her ladyship. She continued to ignore him completely.

"The proportions and detailing are..." -- a wobble began creeping back into his voice -- "...exquisite."

This last word came out with inaudible shudder of emotion. The crowd all strained to get a slightly better view, while staying firmly fixed in position lest they should appear pushy.

Eric extended a chubby hand, worried he was overstepping his remit, but pressing gamely on with his area of expertise. He decided his little finger would be best as a pointer -- the digit least likely to cause offence. The perspiration had begun to build on his forehead.

From his kneeling position he extended his arm, heart pounding and terrified of castigation in front of the camera. After what seemed like an age, pinkie hovering a few inches from the item on display, he dared again to look up at Lady Sarah. She showed him an imperious glare, not fully hostile, but strongly suggesting that he had better hurry with his insignificant little task, so that she could get back to her rather more fabulously important existence.

Surprising himself, Eric dared to hold her gaze momentarily. "The style indicates craftsmanship of the highest quality," he croaked, before turning his attention back to her treasured item. "The rich variety of pink and red tones, the beautifully rendered folds and valleys... There's so much to appreciate and enjoy here," Eric burbled.

He felt like he had hit his stride now, although the hot sun was making him feel dizzy, and there was a constricting feeling just below the waistband of his suit trousers. He began to showboat a little, turning his head slightly towards the crowd.

"The execution in this area is especially impressive, and if we just look underneath here..."

With narrative arc on his side, he pressed his advantage but registered a look of monstrous disapproval from the Duchess as she adjusted position.

"There! That lovely hidden detail, and that wonderfully constructed..." -- he panted -- "...secret compartment..." -- (panting again, slightly struggling for breath now) -- "...that really places it amongst..."

The crowd registered their concern by folding their hands slightly over each other. Lady Sarah Maitland surveyed Eric Mackay, struggling for breath. Perhaps the hint of a smile played out of the corners of her perfectly made-up lips.

"...The very finest examples..." Eric wheezed, stumbling for the finish line, heart palpitating and an abnormal amount of blood congregating around the tops of his thighs -- "...of the genre."

Squeezing the last word out hoarsely, he collapsed back onto his haunches, hoping the camera crew would cut him some slack and cut back to the presenter.

But from voices in his earpiece, the cameraman knew that Fenella Bruton was still in makeup, preparing for her piece on automatic walking sticks. And besides, Eric hadn't offered a valuation. And that was what everyone wanted to find out.

The crowd hovered, slightly on tiptoe. Lady Sarah fixed Eric with a look of icy superiority. Eric swallowed.