“Lancaster Sandland Hand painted Hanley
England”. The inscription was as enigmatic as the design. I held the mug in
my hand wondering what the two figures on it meant. You’ll be my first customer today if you buy it, the woman in
charge of the stall said. It had just gone two o’ clock on a sun-draped, summer
afternoon. I offered her a couple of quid and she took them. I think she’d have
even taken 50p for the item.
It was my first
time at the Hackney Flea Market. I’d heard of it from a friend but had never
visited it. A monthly weekend event that started life as a pop-up project back
in 2013, the market is now the go-to place for vintage enthusiasts. The mix of
wares on display is amazing and bizarre in equal measure. Old cassette-players
(80s boomboxes abound), handmade goods from independent creatives and even some
striking taxidermy. Still, my mug left
me scratching my head. As soon as I got home and put my bike away (you knew
that was coming, didn’t you? I cycled to the market), I went online to dig out
some information about the enigmatic inscription on the mug’s bottom. I must
add that I did ask the seller where she had got the mug from. Like a lot of merchandise
on sale at flea markets, people do not really know the provenance of the
products they are flogging.
Lancaster &
Sandland of Dresden Works was a British manufacturer that specialised in
pottery. They were based in Hanley, Staffordshire from 1944 until the 70s. This
immediately reminded me of an article I had read many years ago about this
region. Close to Stoke (whose football, or soccer, team plays in the English Premier
League), this was an area known as The Potteries because six of the local towns
(Hanley being one of them) were the driving force in the ceramics and
decorative arts industry in the UK. While the range
produced was varied, some figures proved very popular. Amongst them were
Dickens characters and famous, historical people, like Francis Drake. My very
own mug depicted what I can only describe as a pub scene. On one side you see the
pub landlord tidying up the bar, and on the other there is a customer, hat
still on (which does not look normal, what with this scene probably taking
place in the 1800s, when “doff yer cap indoors” was less of a request and more of
a command) pipe in hand, having a pint. This might be his local boozer. At least
the whole set-up conveys a sense of bonhomie, comfort and cosiness.
The air is heavy
with the smell of sex and death. It is spiders' mating season out in both my front and back garden. Soon
after breeding the male of the species will be given its last rites. Staying
behind, the female brown house spider will sit quietly for hours on its tangled
and sticky web. A wet summer, a
damp autumn, unusually warm temperatures. All these factors have led to an increase
of eight-legged creatures on my doorstep. And inside the house. Especially in
the bathtub, on the off-white walls, or scurrying from one corner of the
kitchen to another (usually the male), stopping for a second in the middle of
the white floor, thus, becoming the initial Damien Hirst-inspired black dot on a blank canvas, and then legging it again (pun intended).
The courtship is a
beauty, although not for Mr Spider in the long term. It (He?) spins a small web on
which a tiny drop of its semen goes. After carrying it around on two palps the
male spider will eventually find a female partner with a ready-made web (talk
about finding a Sugar Mama!). Cohabitation follows after which Sir will be
surplus to requirements. Outside my kitchen window this scenario is being
played out as the sky darkens and the clouds close ranks. The whole set-up
reminds me of Queen’s Killer Queen: “She's a Killer Queen/Gunpowder, gelatine/Dynamite with a laser beam/Guaranteed
to blow your mind/Anytime”. The scent of sex and death. Somehow the
air feels incredibly heavy.
