week 15

The day began too early. It was still dark. I was in NY and jet lag had tricked my body into being wide awake at 4.30am. My body is so stupid. Doesn't it realise that when it's dark and the brain says sleep, which is what it should do. It's really disobedient; not like a child, more like a truculent adolescent. It enjoys being oblivious to the social interaction between me and my warm bed.

But the day had begun. Out into the icy and aggressive wind that sweeps the avenues of NY when the weather is inclement. It is now 7.30. I spot a slight corridor of a shop, more a kiosk than anything. It is a sliver of white marble on 6th called Zibetto. It is open and an elegant man of middle-age stands behind a gleaming Gaggia espresso machine of traditionally huge proportions. He is dapper in a blue shirt and smart, narrow, dark blue tie. He seems more than a barista. We are alone; the wind howls outside; inside I mutter 'double espresso' through layers of coats, gloves and jumpers. As in Italy, a saucer is placed on the counter and a swig sized glass of water. The machine grunts and groans and a majestic, viscous cupful of heaven is placed before me. The man is a genius, a god, an angel from another dimension. Whether it was tiredness, cold, being abroad, the man's elegance, I don't know what. But I have just consumed the best cup of coffee I can ever remember.

Down into the subway. The NY subway is always surprisingly grungy. It is dirty, noisy, ugly and smelly. The metro card machines never seem to like my card and there is always a fever of shoving and pushing. Yet it works. Trains rattle across the island in all directions all day and all night. It is cheap, and actually perfectly unthreatening. I stand waiting to grab a train downtown. Amazingly I leap into an almost empty carriage. Immediately I see why. A tramp has taken up residence and everyone is either moving or looking away. A whole bench is clear. I sit and try to look into space. He begins by asking me for a dollar. Being rejected, he then begins to expound on the nature of the American debt crisis. And he talks and talks. Despite his unprepossessing appearance and aroma he is quite compelling and articulate. When questioned, he is almost rational. He knows what's going on in the world; he has just taken a skewed version to live in. After a few stops, I notice I cannot smell him anymore. We chat away for the length of the journey. As I leave I press 20 dollars into his hand. A fair exchange for his madness and wisdom.

I canter around the antique trade on the lower east side; it is all a bit cold and miserable. The morning passes unproductively except for some random mobile office work to France, Italy and Spain. Deals and dealers for Masterpiece. London is ever increasingly a draw for European dealers as their native countries make domestic dealing harder and harder.

Back up town I go and see Luke at the Met. He has been at the museum for a year or so now, and whilst we miss him in London he is a welcome English oasis in NY. He is ridiculously passionate about the museum. Commitment is not the word. I am immediately swept up by his enthusiasm and cerebral approach. He takes me round the "plain" and "fancy" show which counterpoints ornament and intention in a cross-period and cross-material way. It is a much rarer idea than you might think, and it really makes one both look and think.

Lunch with Larry- we have roast chicken at Benoit, 55th and 6th. He gave up booze a while ago and seems to favour decaf iced coffee on the rocks with milk. An abomination. I have a glass of perfectly delicious picpoul de pinet. (seemingly a hero from zero, I don't remember seeing this wine on menus a few years ago and now it is ubiquitous). The chicken is the star. With the aura perhaps of being a slightly boring dish, it arrives chopped into appealingly robust but not too large chunks. A warm brown crispy skin wrapping soft flesh all coated with a suitable sticky and sweet natural chicken jus. It goes down very well.

Back down town to visit Christina, who used to work at Mallett, on Madison Ave. She has a charming husband called Matt and a wonderful baby called Ava. Christina was always life-enhancingly positive and full of ideas and creativity. She is tall and very skinny, and has jet black hair. She is managing her baby with the same total commitment that she took to work. The baby does not do very much. It does smile and gurgle a bit. Quite shortly after my arrival another baby arrives born by its rather bossy mother. She is leaving her spawn for a couple of hours and lists an astonishing catalogue of instructions. I roll my eyes. She leaves and we continue our gossiping and reminiscing. However the new child starts roaming around and crashing into things and falling over. I begin to recall how grateful I am that my own children are no longer babies. We both run around managing these roaming puppies for a while and then I bail in a most cowardly way. I am ashamed of the deep sigh of content that issues from my lips as I close the door behind me.

Cocktails at Bemelmans at the Carlyle. Yum. The best thing about their drinks is that they come with a spare. The waiter brings a micro decanter and rests it in an equally micro ice bucket. It feels so pampering to have built in back up.

Then back to the hotel. I crash before supper. Damn the jet lag.

week 14

The early morning flight to Budapest is a killer. You rise at 5am and then get the first tube up to Tottenham Hale then the over ground train to Stansted. It is cold, dark, misty and wet. Simon (my architect friend), Louise (Mrs Woodham Smith), and I exchange many glances wondering why on earth we are doing this. But we get through it. Coffee is drunk, and a breakfast bap with an omelette and bacon restores a bit of sanity as the eyes begin to focus. Ryanair does its very best to render the flight as gruesome as possible. Firstly, the flight gate is announced and then is closing almost immediately, thereby adding a breathless, brisk walk to our early morning. Then, having rushed, we stand for half an hour queuing to queue. One line of relentless waiting follows another and as, when we are seemingly on the brink of actually sitting down, they slip in another queue on the tarmac. Finally, landing in Budapest the ghastly Ryanair add insult to injury by trumpeting a little fanfare to themselves, celebrating superficially how efficient and on time they are but surreptitiously celebrating how they have tortured all of us for hours and the prospect of torturing us on the way back.

Stephanie, who is getting married in August, is waiting for us as we emerge. She is an enthusiastic, open-hearted woman of around thirty, born in America but with a Hungarian soul. She is trained as a lawyer but is now working to build and develop her father's wineries, Sauska wines. Surreally, we cannot escape from the airport. We all have 10,000 forint notes and though that is only about $50 we cannot break the note anywhere to get the necessary 2,000 to exit the car park. I try to buy a phrase book. The book shop has no cash at all. I go to the change office. They also only have denominations greater than 5000. Finally, I go the cafe to spend as much on coffee as I can. Espressos and cappuccinos are ordered and, as the girls twiddle the relevant nobs, I look at the chocolate bars resting in a basket before me. I remove a twix and a mars bar, beside I observe little bottles marked Palinka and flavoured with plum, apricot, and pear. What are these? Palinka is local vodka. Wow, isn't it great to sell vodka shots to go with coffee? Come on Starbucks- get with the programme! Needless to say a purchase is made, the car can be extracted, and Simon and I stand outside and greedily gulp down our early morning coffee, fortified. The day is seriously looking up.

Budapest is dusted with snow; the city looks romantic and straight out of a fairy tale. The roofs are adorned and graced by the Szolnay factory coloured tiles and the frequent onion domes twinkle even in the grey sky. Last week I stood shivering on Hammersmith Bridge watching my son row, this week I am on the chain bridge. Weirdly, they are almost by the same architect. William Tierney Clark built the first suspension bridge over the Thames at Hammersmith. The current bridge stands on the same foundations and has the same profile but is an 1880's replacement by Bazalgette. Tierney Clark, though based more or less his whole in Hammersmith itself, ironically, designed the first suspension bridge, indeed the first permanent bridge across the Danube between Buda and Pest. Widely considered the signature construction of the city and completed by a Scottish engineer also called Clark (but no relation) it is actually a scaled up version of a bridge at Marlow crossing the Thames!

For supper, we headed to a new restaurant in the city with Christian and Stephanie. Christian always takes his own wine, and when I say his own wine, I mean his own wine. The restaurateurs kick up a bit of a fuss, but Christian charms them and soon they are putty in his hands, bringing ice buckets and special glasses. Many of Christian's wines are named after prime numbers. This evening we taste a preview of 105. It is an explosion in the mouth; it has an amazing mixture of crispness and minerals, with fruit and honey jostling for attention. It is not sweet at all but neither is it dry. In short, it is a poem- a love affair. I want to drown in it. With it, I eat an extraordinary-sounding dish of barley, scallops, and pig's ear. It sounds weird but the barley is prepared like a risotto and has a yellow tinge from saffron. The ear is sliced to thin shreds and deep fried, rendering it crispy and salty, all vestige of an ear a distant memory. The food throughout the meal is delicious but we are preoccupied by the wine.

Back to London, and then down to Sussex to have a midlife crisis day. Boy's toys are to the fore. I am visiting Eagle Cars and Shaw Speed & Custom. The latter exhibited at Masterpiece London last year and are producers of custom Harley Davidsons. They are the only non USA firm to ever become world champions at the annual custom show. Their bikes are the diametrical opposite of the brash flame and nude expectation of 'custom' bikes. They are simple, pared down, almost British reserve style bike. But they are astonishingly glamorous. Each one is a unique design fashioned from both an initial design and reworked in the workshops based on what will actually work and be ride-able. Like all good workshops, their rooms are spotlessly clean and every nut and bolt has an ordered and clean home. I love the calm professionalism as much as the bikes themselves. I am shown round by John and his right hand man Steve. Though they are boss and employee, there is a touching, almost father and son, bond between them. Total trust is conveyed in every sentence, coupled with mutual respect. Steve is shaven headed, tall, and slim. If it wasn't for his easy smile and friendly manner, he could be quite intimidating. John is grey-haired and ageless, clearly a generation older then Steve, but nonetheless hard to date, he could be 60 but equally could be older or younger. They drive me over to the nearby Eagle cars. They are the renowned specialist dealers and restorers of e-type Jaguars. Based at what appears to be a simple collection of wooden farm buildings, they have created a jewellery box of wonders. Black painted doors open to reveal an unbelievable array of these iconic sports cars. Each one is cosseted back to perfection in a forensic way by the Eagle team. My camera clicks away as I am rendered speechless through a mixture of respect and desire. I am wooing them to bring some of their cars to Masterpiece. They would be a 'wow'. In many ways, they typify all that we try to achieve with the show: great art, beautiful condition, fabulous engineering and most importantly, a current and relevant respect for today and the past.

week 13

Monday morning is always a fresh start. Somehow we begin things on a Monday morning. New leaves are turned over and best feet are put forward. This Monday I had decided that though I was meeting someone for breakfast I was NOT single handedly going to keep the pig population at bay. No sausages, bacon etc. I sit down with Michael who is a tall grey haired but boyish ball of creative fire who organises big outside contemporary sculpture shows for Christies amongst others. I am discussing a possible plan for Masterpiece. We look at the menu and both discuss the merits of yogurt with berries. That suits our seemingly mutual new leaf. The waiter appears. He dutifully requests berries etc. After a moments pause I order a bacon sandwich, he immediately curses me and changes his order to bacon too. So much for Monday morning, feel afraid pigs! Feel very afraid.

In the afternoon I rushed down to Hatfields, a commode I bought is being delivered. Part of the deal was that a certain amount of restoration had to be included. I cycled over shivering but stately on my bike. Once there I thaw out nursing a cup of coffee. I look out of the window. Time passes, steam rises and time passes. Finally a shiny silver mercedes sweeps into the yard. Hugh, brisk and smooth with his country tweed, highly polished shoes and military bearing emerges. I am intrigued. He describes and demonstrates the work carried out. I cannot work out whether he is happy or sad. The work has gone well, possibly too well it seems. He gives me the impression that he has undersold it to me now the work is done. Once he leaves I realise what a clever chap he is.  I make a mental note to try and copy his technique.

On Thursday I rushed over to the Bulgari hotel in Knightsbridge for the launch of the committee for this years charity party at Masterpiece. Marie curie are taking over the mantle of the Midsummer party and it is a huge responsibility as the evening should be worth around half a million in fundraising. The hotel is stylish black and the staff hover with the enthusiasm of the new. We are ushered to a cinema on one of the lower levels. There we are introduced to Heather Kerznerwho will lead the project. She is elegant and skinny and incandescent with energy. Everyone is greeted with delight, affection and purpose. We see the presentation and hear her plans and a buzz brightens the room. I think that she is the kind of person who will make things happen. The crackle is very appetising.

I whizz off to Sotheby's cafe where I meet Carol, the jewelry fashion guru from Vogue. I had not seen her since the fair and it is always a delight. For someone as eminent as she is it is strangely humbling how shy she is, or even lacking in confidence. Her "Brilliant" show at the fair required a huge amount of work and took diamonds from over 30 different sources to celebrate the Jubilee in an original and fun way. It brought with it enough headaches that I feared i might never be on friendly terms again. But here we are reminiscing positively and fashioning an idea for 2014. Wow.

Then lunch, not just an ordinary lunch though. Lunch with 71 other people. It was the Women in the Arts lunch at the University Women's Club in Mayfair. I had never been to this club and it is tucked away by Park Lane. I was impressed by this gathering. We men were there under sufferance, this lunch is the annual 'bring a date'. It was amazing to scan the room and see just how many businesses and corporations would crumble if a bomb landed. An incredibly powerful group. The food was pretty ghastly. A cow pat of pâté was followed by chicken with a dog bowl of vegetables, which cunningly managed to incorporate under cooked potatoes and over cooked broccoli. the pudding was a slice of cheese cake that would have better served as a door wedge. But the food is not the point. A fabulous, funny speech by Lucinda Lampton recalling pioneering work done as a proto paparazzi and her burgeoning love of architecture. She had paved the way for so many women, not just in the world of work but also in life. As I went back to the office I realised that I had spent the whole day surrounded by female power and success. Each of the women had achieved their goal in their own way, without any reference to so-called feminism. I felt I was privileged to be working amongst such a plethora of talent.

From the world of female to the world of male. Saturday was spent merging the joys of standing in the freezing cold, enjoying damp feet in driving rain, with fabulous Russian food washed down with Standard vodka and champagne. My son rows and I cycled down to watch him do his thing at Hammersmith. The bridge itself is fabulous, designed by the legendary Bazelgette, seemingly the author of so much of what we experience in London. A festival of cast iron, it glitters in green and gold. Every car that goes over seems to make the whole structure shake and tremor. I watch my boy pass below the bridge as I proudly point my iPhone camera. Then a chase back to the boat house. The gathering of testerone as steaming boys gather, chat and heave the massive boats out of the water, is impressive. None of them seem to feel the cold.  I cycle home and prepare for dinner with Paul. He is a new friend, and he is passionate about Russia. He has been going since the 1960's. his house is a a peon to the culture and craft of Russia from 1760 to 1820. Malachite, rhodonite, korgon and other hard stones abound with gilt bronze twinkling in the candle light. No electrics here. Even the chandelier is perilously lit with a lighter dangling from a pole. We sit around a small English regency breakfast table and quaff from tall glasses engraved with eagles and resting on stepped square feet. A white Georgian lemon cream soup gives way to fluffy blinis layered with sour cream, herring, smoked salmon and roe. The whole blissful ensemble soaked in clarified butter. Great conversation coupled with frozen vodka, and the flickering late combine to make a late night. Boys will be boys.

week 12

January in London with its gruesome cold and darkness, gives way to the warmth and watery generosity of Miami. I arrived in Florida on what was essentially a dealers charter flight. Almost every dealer I know was on board. Fat cats up front. Healthy cats in premium and skinny cats in the back. I sat next to a charming guy called Steve who leads the world in Chinese export silver. He is an excellent travelling companion and we pass a painless 9 hours watching movies, eating disgusting food and modestly imbibing alcohol.

There is a clubby feel to economy class, as everyone moves around and chats and probably a few deals are done. We are all heading to a group of hotels on South Beach which are a few minutes walk from the convention centre. There 1000 dealers are about to swarm. The "booths" are cheap. The smallest costing $850. The key days are the set up ones. The trade gathers around as the goods are unpacked and deals flourish. Great treasures emerge and disappear into waiting vans and trucks. Many of these pieces will re-emerge at TEFAF or Masterpiece.

The next day in the chaos I find and buy a wonderful Austrian silver double magnum decanter. A friend kindly volunteers to take it up to Palm Beach where Mallett will receive it and hopefully sell it without it leaving Florida.

The energy in the Hall is amazing but it is only surpassed by the palpable excitement as everyone gathers at the Raleigh hotel for cocktails. Again everyone is here. So many of the Masterpiece crowd. They all look exhausted. Miles of aisles have been walked often several times. But purchases have been made and there is a general mood of satisfaction. No one stays up late though, and people imbibe modestly. Tomorrow is going to be just as hard, just as long.

I am staying at the Richmond. The rooms are clean and reasonably priced, but that is not the reason you stay there. The secret of the Richmond is Gus. He runs the kitchen and the bar. He has been at the hotel for 20 years. He is tall, upright, wears a Hawaiian shirt and a pork pie hat. He is from somewhere in South America and is discretely camp. He is on duty from dawn to way beyond dusk. In the morning he fries your eggs and brings crispy bacon. At lunch he will fashion a chicken club sandwich and in the evening he mixes the best mojito. He is always quiet, gentle and efficient. There is a sort of fawlty towers factor too, as the other staff are perpetually in a grump or something isn't working. The coffee machine broke on the first day. The computers weren't working and everyone including the staff piggybacked on the wifi from the adjacent hotels. I love it.

Coming out into the street on the second day we were confronted by tragedy. The road was blocked and police were everywhere. Circled with cones and chalk were two lone black shoes, basic trainers. We found out that the chef of the hotel next door had been run over and killed at 2.30 in the morning by a drunk driver. She had left her victim and driven home. However she had been spotted by another driver who had given chase and called the police. It was all over the news bulletins. The chef had a wife and children and the driver also had a family. As my friend Charlie pointed out as we looked at the sad forlorn shoes "all those lives ruined in a heartbeat" and all for driving drunk.

Behind the scene of carnage. About two blocks away the local Lamborghini dealership was launching the latest model. Two lines of very expensive cars and within the hotel the chime of clinking glasses and thumping music trumpeted the launch. It was spectacular if you like that sort of thing but we weren't really in the mood.

Back to the cold, in NY. I landed and headed in to meet with Tod who is considering becoming part of the Masterpiece family. He is always very dapper in a casual way. Always charming and has great stories to tell of adventures trading in far flung corners of the globe. He sells modern and contemporary furniture and is uber connected. I am trying to encourage him to join up but I am distracted by the menu. The fried chicken sandwich which arrives is decadence itself. Lovely sourdough bread cosseting within its folds crisp lettuce and a juicy deep fried slab of chicken. I lose my thread of conversation as this high calorie treasure roams around my mouth. Tod is elusive, he may or he may not join up. Never mind. I make a note "Peels" in the Bowery. Yum.

Bizarrely I am back almost to the same place for supper. A new restaurant called Circolo in Bond St. The owners are friends of Suzanne Demisch whom I have long admired for her fabulous book on Maria Pergay. Who is and was the queen of shiny metal furniture. Suzanne has helped with the look of the restaurant and it is warm and uncluttered and undeniably cool. The restaurant has only been open a few weeks and though their intentions are good, the food is a little disappointing. However they serve delicious brussel sprouts (now seemingly ubiquitous on menus) and one really fabulous dish which is grilled octopus with nut shards and a well-balanced hint of spice. This is all naughtily washed down with heavenly Brunello, ever so slightly tarnished by a strange pantomime the waiter went through of sloshing a splash of wine into each glass and then rolling each glass. I am sure it is good and correct for the wine. But it was weird.

Nicola and I went to visit the Winter show at the Armory. They have had a redesign and it looks much cleaner and brighter. I love the Armory and the restoration seems to be proceeding really well. The interiors by the short lived Associated Artists were a high Victorian aesthetic movement triumph from the design mavericks and pioneers Louis comfort Tiffany and Lockwood de Forest. However at some point, probably in the thirties the lush decorations were all painted over with gruesome greys and greens. Gradually the magnificence is re-emerging. And snippets are revealed in many of the administrative and formal side rooms. The fair is the bastion of Americana and painted furniture and decoys abound, a few formal furniture and decoration dealers lard the otherwise pretty repetitive offering. But it looks great overall and most of the dealers seem content with business. We bond as we walk, it is amazing how many people are actually excited and looking forward to Masterpiece. I am particularly touched by one couple who have children heading to ballet school during the run of the fair who are still prepared to do it despite the clash.

The day ends downtown in Duane st at the shop of Jonathan Burden, an Englishman who has carved out a clever niche for himself as a dealer and restorer. He has a loyal following, which is due in part because of his eclectic stock and part because he is ridiculously charming. You just want to buy from him, and I do succumb to an Art Deco side board which I now have to ship back to London. Oh well.

week 11

Following a manic day of moving pieces of furniture left and right, backwards and forwards, and generally wasting time, we finally arrived at an arrangement of furniture and objects on the Sungoose stand at the Decorative Antiques and Textiles Fair, Battersea that all parties were happy with. Sharing is a tricky business, particularly when neither party wants to be forceful. There is a limit to the amount of 'please do' and ' no you' and ' I never liked it anyway, you have the space' that one can tolerate before you just want to scream and behave badly. Anyway, we got through it and it looked fine. Pearse disappeared and Mrs Sungoose and I took up our positions, ready to sell.

But I also need to buy and I spent the early hours rushing around spotting things for the surreal project I am working on in Hungary. I have a piece of paper in my pocket with small print which is a long shopping list that I was battling my way through- divided emotionally between the urge to get rid of things and the urge to acquire more.

One of the joys of the end of the day at the fair is when to have the first glass of alcohol. In the old days we would debate at what time was Seabreeze o'clock. The cocktail of grapefruit, cranberry and vodka. Fairs can be very dehydrating and the mixture of fruit was always a good one, and a stimulation to push you through to the end of the day.

Once in San Francisco at the Fall show I had a few too many. It spawned the phrase "what you don't mess up, you can claim as a triumph". The opening night party of that show is now something of a legend. It is the most lavish opening party I know. Stationed by my booth was a curious looking waiter who had a shiny bald head, with seemingly one part missing. His head looked as if a slice had been taken away. He was super charming and had as his responsibility, the caviar and vodka shots stand. The evening wore on and I visited his stand regularly, indeed rather too regularly. Towards the end of the evening I was getting rather jovial and was looking forward to the exit. Suffice to say a client and her decorator appear and look intently at a pair of mirrors. After some time they approach me asking ' are those mirrors available?'. Concentrating with all my might and manner, I utter the word "yes" they withdrew and muttered together for some time. Again they approached asking " may we buy them?" I considered their proposal and with some trepidation managed to get out the word "yes". Probably the hardest sale I have ever made. But "what you don't mess up you can claim as a triumph" was born.

The extraordinary thing about Decorative Antiques and Textiles Fair, Battersea is the number of dogs. Seemingly every stand and every visitor has a dog. They come in all sizes and some match their owners and others are diametrically opposite. I think this is the only fair where there is a dog bowl of water by the entrance. At any given moment you can hear a bark or a whine. The most intense moment was on Thursday when a buzz swept through the fair from left to right as the dogs serially went CRAZY. An announcement over the tannoy explained there was a squirrel in the hall!

The fair divides old school from the new. There are young fashionable people who look like they went to art school .They either sell bleached chairs and chateau windows turned into mirrors or cabinet makers' benches as serving tables and industrial light fittings are everywhere. Then there are the old guard, they dress smartly and the men often wear a tie. They sell antiques. They gather and moan because they can recall better times. The average age in this division is around 70. The art school types sell and sell and sell. The old boys and girls stand around waiting for a client who might understand what 'Elizabethan' means. Despite their misery they do find great things and Tony produces a fabulous pietra dura circular table top. The nicest I have seen in years. Tony is fantastic. He has been around. He has reading glasses on a string and a moustache that reminisces on its own. His soft friendly voice is modulated by his generous stomach that enters the room a moment before him. I have bought from him for years and years. His eye remains innovative but driven by quality and technical excellence. It is actually a treat to buy from him.

The Masterpiece fair does not go away and I see many of our exhibitors and clients at the fair. It is a boost when people come up and say how much they like the fair. Of course, not everyone does. But it is all good, I feel passionately that this coming year will be superb and I embrace the challenge of justifying what we do and the way we do it. I am particularly excited by the number of continental dealers coming. It will have a really cosmopolitan feel. The Caprice will have to cater for greater supplies of Prosciutto and rich dark red wine.

My attention on Friday was diverted by being required to be in court. I had transgressed, and I was due to be punished. A couple of months ago I had been caught in Vauxhall parking wrongly. I was due up before the beak. At 9.30 I attended Bromley Magistrates court. A building of no great age or beauty. It seems to have been built by someone who had stayed at a Travelodge hotel. Brick and stone combined to no great effect, even describing the building as mock Georgian is to aggrandise it. I waited patiently in line as a litany of bad parkers, people with no license or insurance paraded their failings before the magistrate. The amazing thing was that the case before me, a no insurance Spaniard, lived in my street-clearly a hot bed of criminals! My turn came and my excuses were acknowledged and ignored. 3 points and a fine. Happy days.

Follow Thomas Woodham Smith on Twitter: www.twitter.com/twoodhamsmith

week 10

This Monday was one of those big Mondays. You know the ones which are expected and you feel slightly nervous about and the result is uncertain. Well it was one of those. Monday was Nazy Vassegh's first day. Who is she, you ask? She is Masterpiece's first CEO. It is like a coming of age for the company. We have been a very successful new kid on the block, but now we are a BUSINESS. We have a CEO. First impressions are invidious but we all have them and mine are very positive. I like people who have an edge, an individual oddity. She drinks strong coffee, and has a cup of boiling water on the side. Not diluted, just alongside. Cool! She is a mother and a business woman who has given a considerable amount of her life thus far to Sotheby's and in particular the Impressionist and Modern division. So she brings corporate thinking, business acumen and a knowledge of the picture world. It will be an exciting time, and we look forward to working together.

But there was another reason to get excited on Monday. I was riding my new bicycle. I had had a rather riotous Friday night. It was meant to be a lunch. But it just got a bit mucky and I ended up leaving the restaurant around midnight. To discover that my beloved specialised Fixie had been purloined. It's chain left like a damp rag hanging limply around the post I had optimistically tied it to. A sort of moral karma. My decadence had to be paid for. However, one of my life mottoes is: every loss is a shopping opportunity in disguise. So it proved to be. Come Monday I was cycling to work astride my sparkling new shiny silver Van Moof 3. It has one gear, a back pedal brake and big fat white wall tyres. It is like cycling a stately barge. I feel I have moved from a sports car to driving a bus. But I love it. The pace infects my mood and I am able to use my commuting time as a useful adjunct to the day.

I ran into a old acquaintance, a decorating legend. We reminisced about old times. He used to come to Mallett at Bourdon House. He was a great friend of my first boss and mentor David Nickerson. They used to wander around the shop smoking. This was already a bit of a taboo. I think they both had a sense of it being naughty. My friend used to smoke with passion, gusto. It was almost an art form his smoking. I once proposed that we got him a grant from the Arts Council to be a walking art work called "the smoker" . A sort of last man smoking. These days he has given it all up. He looks very well even though he is a bit of an antique now, and he is full of plans and creativity. His style is a sort of crumbling empire look. You might even describe it as damaged chic.

I set up my stand at the Battersea decorative fair which I am sharing with Pearse from Norfolk. Even though our stuff is very different it went together pretty painlessly. The stand was painted by Mad Dougie who is also from Norfolk. They went out afterwards on a traditional china town pilgrimage slash pub crawl. Dougie parted ominously pointing out that he does not get hangovers. Maybe not. He does not say much, a lot of his time when not painting was spent running his hand down his long and unfeasibly thin blonde beard, it more resembles a piece of string stapled to his chin than a beard. But he is a great worker. He cracks on and the stand is better painted and looks more professionally finished than all the others. I won't say or hear a word against Mad Dougie.

I finished the week in the elegant company of the Masterpiece PR team Freya and Claire. At a pop up recommended by Scoopt. Some friends of theirs called "the basement galley" are starting a catering business doing fancy dinners in people's kitchens. There were endless courses and a few culinary eccentricities. I am not sure how often I will want to eat chopped smoked salmon and cheddar with a crispy rosti popped on top. But the main thing was that the two fresh faced guys who were behind it were brimming with optimism and glowing with start up. I think they will develop their ideas and do well. Part of the fun was choosing the wine because we had to bring our own. Safe to say there was a bit of showing off. Claire went to Vagabond and I went to my favourite Italian wine shop in London, Vini Italiani, which is in the Fulham Road. I think it is the only Italian wine shop in London, but that does not detract from their charm and helpful approach. I bought a sweet wine "Pius ix" an unusual blend of Sauvignon blanc and Gewurtztraminer, crazy sweet but equally crazy flavour. It sort of has everything packed in somehow. The mixture of curious food and wine led to good conversation. And everyone became more and more interesting the more I consumed. Strange that. But there was one extra bonus. I met another entrepreneur. Max, he is opening an Italian bakery pasticceria around the corner from me in Stockwell. It is going to be called Dolcezza. He promises to make proper Tuscan bread. If he can conjure that wonderful hard sour bread into existence practically in my back yard. I promise to be his best customer.

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week 9

The first flight of the year took me to the astonishing maelstrom that is the city of Naples. I have been coming here since I was a teenager. Coming out of the railway station bleary eyed after a sleepless night travelling in a carriage with noisy fragrant fellow travellers. Stepping out across a sleepy but busy Piazza Garribaldi, finding a newsagent and simultaneously noticing a small oven in the middle of his shop. He rushes out, opens the door and produces a tray of fluffy brown doughy balls. He presses one into my hand and it is scalding and astonishing. A heavy bread, white and crusty but with an intense bitter sweet orange goo inside. I walked out into the city with a small paper bag full of these treasures pressed to my breast as I trod up to the Museo Nazionale waiting for it to open. I have loved the city ever since.

I am with Andrew. He is my agent for Naples. He is English but totally international. He lives in France and has an Indian boyfriend in London. Andrew is a taste guru. His style is sort of scruffy chic. Tousled hair and crumbling carrier bags, he gathers treasures in France and comes to London to flog. He has a devoted following who buy all he has to offer. Often you might think you don't want what he is purveying. But you buy it anyway. Tomorrow it will be what you want.

We have a ritual. Lunch in La Bersagliera in Santa Lucia and supper at Ciro in Mergellina. The first is light and airy and you look across at the sea. The second has the worst lighting in the world, brutal hospital style. The food is delicate at lunch, a glass of Falanghina white (in continuous production since Roman times ) with a plate of seafood pasta. Basta cosi. Perhaps a little coffee. Supper is all deep fried and steaks and the bold black volcanic wine Aglianico, which tastes of the sulphurous soil of Vesuvious. Today I divert from tradition for a plate of Arancini. They are those wonderful savoury balls of fried rice that are covered in bread crumbs and filled with delight. I am in love with the fictional detective from Sicily, Montalbano. I eat them in homage to him.

Then the fun begins. Between meals you shop. Naples is one of the last cities in the world that loves antiques. The steep hills and higgeldy piggeldy streets seem to have generated a divine labyrinth of chaos. Along the often narrow streets cars, motorbikes and pedestrians jostle for priority. Amid this energy the taste for slic modern chrome and plastic struggles to create the supremacy it enjoys elsewhere. Mayhem rules. And the love of the old and the second hand still has glamour and style. There is one shop we go to where a young couple hold sway. Maybe in their early 30's they are always in situ. The walls are not straight, the paint is beyond peeling. Everything either is against the wall or leans against the wall and everything is broken, and I mean everything. If you see something that looks sound then look hard, for it will be broken. In another there is a jovial, round, grey haired man of stocky diminutive scale, a Naples paradigm. He has a shop crammed with things. You cannot walk around the shop you can only gingerly rotate. Given enough time he will tell you how marvellous, rare and possibly royal every item in his shop is. Amid the bedlam there are a few elegant shops and ones where you will see truly great pieces. And I have found several items every trip, unearthed from often unlikely sources and sometimes from predictable ones. Naples is always a joy.

Back in London. The Masterpiece exhibitors are back at work. Stands get allocated. Contracts wing their way. The rush is now on to get the world going and everyone seems very keen.

Masterpiece is producing an exciting new short magazine to both review and preview the fair and I was cycling around visiting exhibitors in Kensington Church Street when the cover page was emailed through. I stopped, downloaded it and did not quite love it. Florence at Apollo said she would send me through a variant. I had a few minutes to kill so I looked around for what to do. Should I see one of our exhibitors Butchoff Antiques who was over the road? Or our new exhibitor this coming year Rolleston? Or a new potential? Just as I was deciding, who should pop out of his wine shop but Tuggy. He used to have a wine stand (Huntsworth wines) at Masterpiece. He is one of life's good guys; tall, fair haired, cheerful and always positive, despite having often good reasons to not be. We shoot the breeze and discuss old fair times. I say I am off to NY and he says I should remember to put tea tree oil under my nose before flying to avoid winter plane bugs. He then offers me advise on a cold remedy he has found. Then we discuss wine and he has one we serve at Masterpiece 'Picpoul de Pinet'. It is on offer. Then I spot an Art Deco mirror lying on the floor. How much? Within 10 minutes I have bought two cases of wine and a mirror. I look at my phone. The email is in, the cover is fine. I tell Florence I am going to send Oscar the bill for my wine. Waiting for the correction cost me a fortune.

So it goes.

week 8

The world is rising slowly this morning of 2013. Last year was an awesome party. We had it all. All the usual food and drink but it was expanded by so many feasts that no wonder we all are slouching around in our pyjamas.

The funny thing is that at Masterpiece London our year finishes in July and I have been stupidly talking about "last year" for months. Now we are half way through. Most of the contracts are in and the logistics of planning the build are well under way. We are planning, planning, planning. It feels as if we are about to gird our loins for the big push. The summer is within touching distance. We have a final crunch at Easter and then it is all nonstop until the fair.

But everyone else is blinking, stretching and yawning as they emerge into the year but not my pal in New York, who is vigorously up and running. He has a big deal that is going to close next week. This is the same big deal that was going to close next week for the last year. He is a wonderful enthusiast for art and decorative arts in particular. He has been collecting all his life. His apartment in New York is like a minefield. Everywhere you turn you might break or brush against a valuable object. His taste is truly eclectic ranging from early English needlework through porcelain and pushing on to Indian marquetry furniture. He is a one off. In terms of pure volume I would hazard that no one has as much stock as he does and he is not a dealer. Well, he sort of is these days as he needs to raise money to fund this "big deal". He is very solicitous on the phone, but his purpose is to encourage me to get into gear selling his stuff for him. But I am struggling to get anyone to answer the phone. The world is still away. Next week, I hear again and again.

I cannot stop. Over Christmas I made a few purchases in Norfolk and they arrived in London brought by the legendary JJ. He has been driving his van from Norwich to London for around 30 years, maybe longer. He is a slow speaking, steady man born and bred in Norfolk. Always smiling and always positive. He belongs to another world where people work to do a job rather than work in order to either do something else or be somewhere else. I feel certain that in all his years he has never crashed. He is too steady. I remember years ago his van was robbed in central London. He was low for some time after that as the betrayal of trust was what hurt him the most. Not to say he cannot see an opportunity when it presents itself. He spotted an old Victorian radiator sitting in the yard gathering rust. He quickly snapped that up and is off to try and flog it. Life behind the wheel of a van must afford the occasional entrepreneurial venture!

The pieces from Norfolk all need work and the workshop was not best pleased by feeling rushed during this time of sluggishness. But it is very exciting finding new objects. There is a sort of glow that surrounds the new. Realising the potential in something, through a new environment or through restoration, is very thrilling. The ultimate goal is to make a sale but the process of getting an object to the point of sale is often more thrilling than actually putting the money in the bank. The money only facilitates getting more stuff after all.

Having seen my stuff unloaded I cycled off to Mallett where the same nascent energy could be observed. The office is beginning to plan the stand at Maastricht and the quiet few days at the start of the year allow for a slow reflection. I wander around, greet everyone, check out the sale catalogues and head to my desk. A certain twiddling of thumbs follows. I look out of the window. I make a cup of coffee. I look out of the window some more. I cannot stand it. I get up and leave the office. I have to do something new. I call home and the boys are just getting up. It is 1 o'clock. I race home and I persuade them to walk into Brixton and we will have a late lunch at Franco Manca. I had never been before and he makes legendary sourdough pizzas. He is in Market Row. The whole market area is being rejuvenated with amazing food and curious shops. Some hate the change but others welcome it. The market is full of covered aisles each with a different decorative theme. All interesting aesthetically. The queue is not too long and we are seated at a marble table with wooden benches under the roof of the alley but in the flow of people. It is equally fascinating to watch the theatre of people as it is to taste his delicious thin but fluffy pizzas. I feel transported to Italy. There is a perfect balance between basic food and a gourmet approach. We leave full and stimulated by the vibe of Brixton. It is an odd comparison but the area reminds of St Petersburg when I went in the late 80's. The excitement and thrill of opportunity crackles in the air. In this case the fear is that it will all become very bogus and twee, but the commercial buzz is palpable and exciting to be around. I am enthused by it all so much I want to get to work!

week 7

During the feast, effulgent gift giving and general excess that is Christmas the art trade tends to go to sleep. With a few notable exceptions. France does not stop. The auction catalogues keep flopping on to the doormat and the email alerts ping into the inbox. Rather than being annoying however it is a comfort, it is the counterpoint to all the over indulgence. In a weird way art shopping, which most of the time is the epitome of indulgence, suddenly becomes transforms into an almost Spartan activity. Cast in the serious world of earning a living it smacks of gravitas and provides a comforting alternative world.

Of course it is a delight to be in Norfolk with my sister and her family. Nothing could be nicer than the seemingly endless parade of deliciousness. My nieces all seem well trained and each one in turn fashions a fascinating twist on the traditional culinary expectations of Christmas. The day itself passes with the formal structure only slightly changed as we eat at supper time. But bedtimes rolls round and I am as uncomfortably full as I should be. However the day has been spent travelling round the local dealers. From one I have acquired a charming desk chair, Edwardian and mahogany, it looks like a late Gillows model with turned reeded tapering legs and reeded seat rails. But the unusual aspect is the slatted, almost arcaded back. It bears an echo of Weiner Werkstatte and is a fascinating fusion. Then at another dealer I find a cool pair of open bookcases. Actually that is rather too grand a term, they are basically a pair of tall shelves. They probably date only from the 1960's but they have guts and charm and will hopefully present my glass collection well at the forthcoming Battersea fair which starts on the 22nd Jan.

On the 27th the bucolic party are all off to kill birds. They gather outside in a posh version of combats and chat about other days similarly occupied. They look rather marvellous all together. There all all ages from 14 up to about 70. I cannot help thinking of cliched images of the First World War. There are two classic blonde sloane rangers who look round with a sort of blinking innocence, almost like young birds. Nothing has ever stood in their way, and probably nothing will. From school to trust fund to job in the city and wives and children. That same untroubled innocence will probably remain all their lives. That sort of pampered life is quite rare these days and the boys should be followed and filmed as a kind of anthropological record. Like recording the last throws of an extinct species. I feel like I am privileged to observe this rarity in its natural habitat. During the Great War they would have been fodder for the guns.

I decided to embrace the celebration of guns by taking my urban brood off to have a lesson in clay pigeon shooting. We arrived not looking very country tweed at all. My eldest son having made a point of trying to look as Stockwell as possible. We are quickly delivered into the hands of a true Norfolk voice. He looks and sounds built from local soil. I ask him if he has shot all his life. From under his worn baseball cap and through his jovial grey beard he says, no. He only took the sport up when he was 60 and he has only done it for 31 years. Wow, our teacher is 91! And what a marvellous man he is. All patience and encouragement, my two sons cynicism evaporates in the face of his complete kindness, slow speech and the regular clattering to the ground of exploded clays. The oldest, coolest son hits everything. Loving it from the start. He ascribes his instant skill to years spent killing aliens on an x box. I don't doubt it. The wife is annoyingly much better than me and the youngest who is always a slow starter soon gets the knack and ends the session killing clays from different directions. We drive back to the game lunch thrilled and our cold numb feet a minor irrelevance. Bleeding pigeon and grouse on the gravel actually don't seem as weird and alien as they did before. But my blood lust remains focused on the kitchen rather than the field.

Back in London and we are mapping out the next few days. The New Year's Eve and a gathering of neighbours, but it is a joy to be home. The smell of the city and the sirens and the multi cultural citizens. I can feel the throb of business and I can't wait for the new year to get going.

week 6

The public Christmas is over and the private one can begin. The last party was the Hatfields lunch. A wonderful gathering, rather an antidote to everything else over the last week or so. Though Anna is in her 30's and her sidekick in the office, known as the Princess of Nebraska, is in her 20's, the average age of the men is verging on antique. I sat next to Ken who has been restoring lacquer for 51 years. He is an exceptional character and he fits in well with the current company. The average age of the local industry is over 30 years. They have all been to many a Christmas do, and they slip with easy fluency into conversation and turkey. 5 hours later and a lot of ground covered, I drag myself away to walk home and prepare for a family evening.

However the phone rings and it is a request for a red lacquer cabinet. I rack my brains, I know one in Italy, one in Belgium, and one in Cambridgeshire, and finally I remember one in Barcelona. I start ringing round; all are sold except the Barcelona one. Emails with pictures follow, then details, then money is discussed. By midnight there is a deal on the table. It may not come off but it is an amazing realisation of the way the market has changed. Things can happen really fast. Images flick across the web like leaves in the wind, occasionally landing somewhere useful.

But what is it about red at Christmas? My assistant Francesca has been wearing a plastic silver tiara all week. Something that at any other time of the year would be seriously odd. She has also been wearing a series of red jumpers some of which are bedecked with Santa and some with cuddly deer. Red is everywhere. Shop windows, street lights even the otherwise sane start allowing the red and the sparkle to invade their lives. It is quite possible that the red cabinet client is not wanting a Christmas red, but I would not be surprised. And to cap it all it is not the true colour of Christmas anyway! The traditional seasonal colour is green and it was rebranded in the 20' s by the Coca Cola company. Anything Christmas and red is actually an advertisement for Coca Cola. And yet it is ubiquitously adopted, with a glance at the voluptuous bottle of fizzy brown liquid scurrying along behind.

One of the most delightful aspects of the restoration business is the opportunity to talk and reminisce with people who have lived through the trades many twists and turns over time, people who have worked through boom and recession. However the restorer tends to be only broadly affected, as long as there is work on the bench the vicissitudes can seem a little distant. However a dealer who has been in the business for his or her whole life and is possibly second generation has a more intense tale to tell. I really feel privileged to sit down and break bread with these leviathans from time to time. A lunch this week was one such moment. Wonderful anecdotes about current grandees in their early days, selling from backs of trucks. Miles of complicated deals involving international trades and swaps. Planes missed and long car journeys. It could never be all written down, it's probably all libellous but Adrian and Rosie' s lives would thrill and enchant. I am very envious of the intensity with which life has been embraced.

One of the features of Christmas is the indulgence and I have created an indulgence test. It is called Butterscotch Delight. It is served at "Little House Mayfair" off Curzon st. It is a Proustian doorway. Not a Madeleine cake but a spoonful of childhood. I, greedily, often consume it. But offering it to guests at lunch is a fascinating test. It does not simply divide the fat and the thin; it does not divide the sweet from the savoury. Being a good eatery the Butterscotch Delight does not come plain, topping each goblet is a spoonful of whipped cream with a hint of vanilla, and sprinkled on top are scattered shards of salty burnt caramel. It is as delicious as it could be. However most people I speak to think of school or worse when they reminisce about Butterscotch Delight. So in a way it is not just a greedy treat but it is enhanced to be a conquest over childhood. So I watch those who tuck in and note that they are not only indulging themselves at Christmas but they are also moving on, unfettered by memories or prejudices carried from the past. The best people eat the Butterscotch Delight.

week 5

"It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas". My Christmas playlist has been dusted off and is improving the lives of the Masterpiece staff via Spotify. Yet it all seems too early. It is cold enough but somehow I want Christmas to begin nearer the actual day.

The parties this far out, tend to have a corporate, networking feel. More like good sense and less like a riotous rout. Last week was the SLAD (Society of London Art dealers) lunchtime Christmas drinks party. The board members all had badges to wear. We drank and ate snacks and chatted about eating and drinking at other places. No one wants to talk about business. SLAD is art whilst the BADA (British Antique Dealers Association) Christmas drinks last week at Mallett was all about furniture and there was of course LAPADA's Christmas party too (London and Provincial Art and Antiques Association). LAPADA and BADA both have London fairs, and they both have an individual identity and demographic. SLAD has a slight advantage in that the top dealers do all become members and the organisation adds great value to the market and lobbying clout. Nonetheless it would be nice to see these three associations as one.

A true micro party was had by Nicola and myself with Katherine and Geoffrey from Wartski. The lunch was at Sumosan in Albemarle Street. They have a fantastic lunch menu, which can be nuanced endlessly. But spicy fish soup followed by a delicate plate of sashimi, including yellowtail. Then yakitori tuna with rice, pickles and vegetable tempura. Washed down with warm Sake. Geoffrey and Katherine are full of stories and anecdotes but at the same time they are making plans and developing ideas. We love them because they seem to enjoy their work and their lives. It is very inspiring to be around.

A visit to Hatfields to see my elephant was squeezed in. The workshops, that I set up in my Mallett days, are in Clapham and inhabit a beautiful Georgian ex school in the high street. The office is run by Anna who despite her flowing blonde hair and generous smile runs the workshops with a rod of iron. Ten grumpy old men cow tow obediently to her relentless fairness. The ultimate employment weapon. Anybody can bear a grudge but it is very hard when wherever you look you see fairness. Her side kick is known as the Princess of Nebraska in respect of her origin and noble bearing. Anna loves to tidy. And the office is being given its annual overhaul. A bustle is going on and I am co-opted into furniture moving. Eventually I see my carved wooden model of an elephant. He is lovely and I am loath to sell, I think I will take him home for a bit.

The Mallett party was graced, as is traditional, by the leavers from this year. Mallett has always been a breeder of fine expertise and entrepreneurial spirit. Nick who has set up on his own after 15 years at Mallett and works alongside Tarquin in the Pimlico road has a sharpness of eye and eagerness that he is putting to good use now. Tess has gone to be a painter and possibly a mother in due course (she married her long term boyfriend in the summer) she is a pocket sized ball of fire. The party goes with a swing with her energy and insanity.

And the best cure for a night on the tiles? Well, food takes the place of tiredness and aspirin and caffeine soften these dehydrated and shrunk meninges that are the pain we feel in our heads. Lunch is therefore at Le Petit cafe in the cut through between Dover and Albemarle Street. Upstairs there are 6 tables and they serve pasta which is as good as anywhere in London. The sauces have good oil levels and appropriate saltiness and the pasta has softness but also a proper sense of bite. Add pasta to a glass of red wine and slip in an aspirin and a bright afternoon awaits you. The final challenge is conversation. Michael joined me; he is the Masterpiece and Mallett Finance Director. We had prepared an analysis of an aspect of sales; it was fascinating to feel the brain slowly come back to life. By the end of lunch I felt ready to go out and party again. Roll on next week.

week 4

Anyone who is reading this may get the impression that I am obsessed with food. Indeed it does take up an inordinate amount of my focus. But this week was exceptional. Christmas is here! And the season of excess has begun. In addition the draw to London this week was inexorable. It was sales week at both Christies and Sotheby's. So, many of the Masterpiece London exhibitors were in town and so was the rest of the buying world.

I began the week with a friend, Alex, who is a Spanish art consultant with a ridiculously youthful demeanour and the most uncompromisingly sticky out ears. He is, sort of, my age but he looks like he could be my son! He has just lost his job. But he is sanguine, as he has a new Russian client, so he is happy but in a dejected way.

It is Christmas (hem hem) so we had wine with our breaded escalope with broccoli frolicking in wine and spring onions. A dish I love but the last time I had it, it was an inedible confection of gristle. I double checked with the kitchen and indeed it was promised to be elegant and delicious, and so it proved to be. Having put the world to rights we asked for the bill. The waiter replied "don't worry sir, it's on the house as you had a bad time last time." Wow! I wasn't expecting that and only after mentioning a bit of grissle-great place. Cut to a few hours later when the restaurant rang me to say that they were really embarrassed but they had given the free meal to the wrong person. Me! And indeed I did have to pay-less great place.

Down to Christies to view the Riahi sale, an amazing collection of the grandest period of french furniture. Also the Harewood sale, a sort of attic clearance with a mixture of pieces, accompanied by a group of decorative lots which will be sold next week at Christie's South Kensington.

The Riahi pieces are so grand it is sort of intimidating. We talk to the Christie's team, the energetic Anna who carries her talismanic clip board and squeezes the tip of her biro with nervous intensity and Simon (pronounced French ) who once interned at Mallett. They are off duty, I am not a mega client they have to be nice to. We gossip and say indiscreet things. I leave a fantasy bid on the commode en biblioteque. A description I guess Christie's have made up. It is a form I have never seen and is ravishingly beautiful. Breathtaking. It sells in due course for around £2.5 million.

Downstairs and seemingly out of range is the Harewood kit. For me, reducing itself down to a pair of perfect Chippendale painted armchairs and a group of pieces by the British legend of gilt bronze Mathew Boulton. The cult following both is hard to define, they have a name that transcends the narrow world of decorative arts. Chippendale has been celebrated for ever, but Boulton has been 'caviar to the general' since time immortal but now he seems to have broken through. The world wants Boulton and though the pieces on offer all have condition issues they all sell when the time comes well. It is a real joy to handle these things, to feel, yes, feel where their quality lies. I am confident that the value will only increase for these fascinating expressions of an English idea of French bronze.

Back to lunch though I cannot describe every dish and each friend I met with. Lunch is a perfect blend of time pressure with hedonism. Because of the uncertain length of lunch it intensives the agenda. You cut to the chase.

So here goes. Dover sole is the gold standard of fish. On a menu it stands out as both a challenge and an opportunity. It is always über expensive and slightly intimidating. It arrived and it was a good size, not too small or big. It was a delightful brown but not obscuring the delicate white flesh. The taste was heaven; it was that miraculous mixture of the flesh being both milky and meaty. It had a perfect crunch which was buttery and salty. I asked the kitchen how they had achieved this. Apparently the pan gets very hot, salt is added and super-heated. Then butter is added but not too much, like a splash of oil, and thence fish. A few minutes each side and then rushed to the table. A minor Masterpiece. Our conversation ranges over local theatre, life drawing and the draw of novelty (both people and things ) he is a million years old but he is a life enhancer. Great company. Then the exhibition. According to the grandees the show is not intellectual. The catalogue is poor. There is no proper thematic link or chronology. However it is the most successful show at the RA in years. David, my old teacher from school, has put together an astonishing collection of treasures. There are no entrants who appear for their merit. Everything is there because it is a treasure, dare I say it, a Masterpiece, not because it is worthy. A wonderful show. I went because neighbours of ours had designed and installed the show "Stanton Williams ' we were so lucky to see the show with no one there, so to speak. Great things in a wonderful setting. It was a challenge intellectually because it was not all spelled out. We or you had to work it out, I suppose the grandees must be scratching their heads as they see a new dynamic; not dumbing down, not intellectual challenge, just fabulous things elevating the soul and the mind.

Or maybe I should say Dover sole and the mind.

week 3

I was in Avignon on Sunday night, the walled city which reeks of the medieval world. Schism popes and mercenaries, disease and short intense lives. We were wandering around looking for somewhere to eat. Occasionally distracted by a church or such like. Sunday is mainly a closed day and it is December. The few places open teem with antique dealers. For this is the ritual solstice gathering of the trade at Avignon, tomorrow there is Montpellier and yesterday (though I did not go) was Bezier.

These three fairs happen together four times a year and they are an extraordinary gathering. From across Europe they come- Italians, Germans, and Spanish Portuguese. Even down from Scandinavia. I am with one of my oldest pals. We both read English at Uni versity, back in the dark ages. His family for generations have collected and traded tirelessly in everything from ancient gold coin collectors to contemporary Chinese scroll painting. To earn money as a student he used to rent a van then drive to Brighton, buy odd bits of stripped pine and then drive back. Stopping on the way back at all the antique centres selling the stuff. At the end of the day he returned the van empty and had pockets crammed with cash. He now deals in carpets and textiles, known by his peers as " lucky mike", earning this name because he finds endless great things, but he does so because he works ten times harder than the unlucky ones!

Quaffing wine and plotting the temporary denizens of Avignon prepare for the battle to come. In the morning at 8am about 3 thousand plus are let in. Dealers and buyers alike, no stand preparation, no vetting, no comradely trading. It is chaos! Everyone runs around and there follows a frenzy of trading which steams for three hours. At 11 or so the herd stop and buy sausages and drink beer or champagne. Then they repair to, lick wounds, pack up or shoot off to some rendezvous. Gathering strength for the next battle in the morning.

From about 10am, French time, my double life starts to kick in. Emails from the office, calls from existing or potential exhibitors land on my iphone. There is a weird counterpoint between the dealers around and those from the top of the tree from Masterpiece London. Jewelry, antiquities and potential sponsors are dominating the airways as I haggle over a Japanese bronze model of a rat from around 1900. Weird but wonderfully balancing. Neither world is too dominant.

Mike has had some luck. He has found an 18th century Kelim fragment. Very, very rare apparently. So he is home and dry. The energy of the event is such that you only exist if you bought. Not spending money is failure.

Friday, Francesca my assistant and I are off to Budapest. I am helping a friend/client finish his house on the Danube. He calls it his cottage in homage to the cottages in Newport Rhode Island. He is a driven man. He stands, he does not sit. Elegantly thin with a wave of grey hair he storms through life doing deals and enjoying himself by suffusing his life with treats, wines from his own vineyards, foie gras, Hungarian truffles and delicious indigenous pork called Mangalitsa. Breakfast is a truffle infused boiled egg with slices of truffle and a solid pinch of salt. Coffee and a shot of the filthy local herbal alcohol Unicum. I join in but I don't embrace the morning booze. The Hungarian truffle is a wonder. All the aroma and flavour of an Italian white one and the robustness of a French black truffle. Yum.

Tip : put eggs in a plastic box with a truffle for a couple of days, because eggshell is porous, after that time you have a truffle flavoured egg.

Then a race to the airport via my new friend Anna. She owns and runs Gerbeaud in Budapest. Possibly the world's greatest cake shop. Certainly a rival to anything in Paris or Vienna. Traditional cakes sit beside innovation, as she pushes the barrier ever further back. Wonderful uses of pepper and spice. Very Hungarian. The race has been won. Christian stupidly fast Porsche driven eagerly by me sweeps us to the airport. Off home to recover!!!

week 2

Flying through fog to land at Heathrow from Madrid, I was dazzled by a moment's cloud break. The twinkling expanse of the city stretched out before me; the London eye, the Winter Wonderland, Hyde Park. I saw the city's landmarks and a tingle ran down my spine. I love Madrid, I adore it, but London is inexhaustible, majestic, sublime. I felt a rush I have always associated with coming home. I had been gone less than 24 hours.

My trip to Madrid was to visit Feriarte, the 36-year-old antiques fair, which I have been visiting since the '90s. It was patchy then, but there were works to buy and it was a lot of fun to visit. These days, though, there are just 80 dealers and a handful of auction houses, many selling indeterminate contemporary work. My dealer friends there are all in their 60's and 70's and nostalgia clogs the atmosphere. But business continues nonetheless; one dealer I know made a sale to the Prado, another is in mid transaction with a major sale to the Middle East and a friend who once dealt in Spanish old masters, is now buying Rolex watches and Balenciaga dresses. I too bought and sold some works.

Whilst in Madrid I rediscovered "El Puchero," a restaurant that sums up so much of what I admire of the city. The food is old fashioned but crafted with so much love and attention to detail that it comes across as very modern and almost pioneering. Artichoke hearts tossed in breadcrumbs with strings of jamon, a broth of clams and butter beans which balances salt and stock perfectly and croquettes of bacalao that were crunchy, fluffy and soft with not too much potato. Madrid may be down but it certainly is not out.

The situation in Spain made an interesting counterpoint to my travels last week, when I drove in my beaten up silver soft top Saab to Belgium to visit the Namur Fair. Travelling via the Euro tunnel with my colleagues Justin and Francesca, we had an early start. Arriving painlessly, we then roamed the aisles at Namur Fair and found a remarkable number of treasures. After our buoyant day we had supper back in the 70's; dining on meat fondue and ghastly sour red wine.

Driving to Holland the next day we visited long-time dealers Bill and Cornelia, who are ensconced in a Dutch retirement village with fabulous canal views. Their apartment teams with carefully chosen things and everything they buy, they live with and cherish. They have a partner's desk in the sitting room at which they cogitate; there are books, a magnifying glass and no television. Their time is spent lovingly examining and researching their collection. In the sitting room almost nothing is for sale, in the spare bedroom things are relegated and everything is for sale, and then in the rejects cupboard everything is for sale and very low priced. They sell in order to buy, not to live.

Buying over we headed to Brussels and dined at "Vismet". It's a robust Belgian fish eatery, with no frills but outstanding fish. Justin ordered a bone dry Alsace wine and we shared all our dishes, no one wanting to be left out of a treat. The stand out, were the Zeeland oysters, not too big, not too soft, and wonderfully salty. A synopsis of the sea.

After touching down from my travels I've had a busy week as Creative Director for Masterpiece London. Masterpiece offers dealers an exceptionally high-quality fair for exhibitors to market their wares, with an underlying vision that balances innovation and tradition. On any given day I will meet some of the most memorable characters in the antiques, art and design world. The business of dealing invites the ultimate expression of putting your money where your mouth is and the dealers enjoy keeping me on my toes.

Each dealer at Masterpiece is passionate about their subject, and this week I have had the privilege to discuss possibilities around the celebration of the tri centenary next year of the legend of English clock making Thomas Tompion. Not to mention a unique collection of Meissen figures that will be brought to the fair. And every now and then, there are some very creative ideas that land on my desk, such as an art sushi performance! The job is a mixture of filtering and searching. My challenge is to find the highest quality of newness, in all material, design and expertise. Masterpiece is not after new for the sake of new and it requires a good eye to see the wood for the trees.

week 1

Flying through fog to land at Heathrow from Madrid, I was dazzled by a moment's cloud break. The twinkling expanse of the city stretched out before me; the London eye, the Winter Wonderland, Hyde Park. I saw the city's landmarks and a tingle ran down my spine. I love Madrid, I adore it, but London is inexhaustible, majestic, sublime. I felt a rush I have always associated with coming home. I had been gone less than 24 hours.

My trip to Madrid was to visit Feriarte, the 36-year-old antiques fair, which I have been visiting since the '90s. It was patchy then, but there were works to buy and it was a lot of fun to visit. These days, though, there are just 80 dealers and a handful of auction houses, many selling indeterminate contemporary work. My dealer friends there are all in their 60's and 70's and nostalgia clogs the atmosphere. But business continues nonetheless; one dealer I know made a sale to the Prado, another is in mid transaction with a major sale to the Middle East and a friend who once dealt in Spanish old masters, is now buying Rolex watches and Balenciaga dresses. I too bought and sold some works.

Whilst in Madrid I rediscovered "El Puchero," a restaurant that sums up so much of what I admire of the city. The food is old fashioned but crafted with so much love and attention to detail that it comes across as very modern and almost pioneering. Artichoke hearts tossed in breadcrumbs with strings of jamon, a broth of clams and butter beans which balances salt and stock perfectly and croquettes of bacalao that were crunchy, fluffy and soft with not too much potato. Madrid may be down but it certainly is not out.

The situation in Spain made an interesting counterpoint to my travels last week, when I drove in my beaten up silver soft top Saab to Belgium to visit the Namur Fair. Travelling via the Euro tunnel with my colleagues Justin and Francesca, we had an early start. Arriving painlessly, we then roamed the aisles at Namur Fair and found a remarkable number of treasures. After our buoyant day we had supper back in the 70's; dining on meat fondue and ghastly sour red wine.

Driving to Holland the next day we visited long-time dealers Bill and Cornelia, who are ensconced in a Dutch retirement village with fabulous canal views. Their apartment teams with carefully chosen things and everything they buy, they live with and cherish. They have a partner's desk in the sitting room at which they cogitate; there are books, a magnifying glass and no television. Their time is spent lovingly examining and researching their collection. In the sitting room almost nothing is for sale, in the spare bedroom things are relegated and everything is for sale, and then in the rejects cupboard everything is for sale and very low priced. They sell in order to buy, not to live.

Buying over we headed to Brussels and dined at "Vismet". It's a robust Belgian fish eatery, with no frills but outstanding fish. Justin ordered a bone dry Alsace wine and we shared all our dishes, no one wanting to be left out of a treat. The stand out, were the Zeeland oysters, not too big, not too soft, and wonderfully salty. A synopsis of the sea.

After touching down from my travels I've had a busy week as Creative Director for Masterpiece London. Masterpiece offers dealers an exceptionally high-quality fair for exhibitors to market their wares, with an underlying vision that balances innovation and tradition. On any given day I will meet some of the most memorable characters in the antiques, art and design world. The business of dealing invites the ultimate expression of putting your money where your mouth is and the dealers enjoy keeping me on my toes.

Each dealer at Masterpiece is passionate about their subject, and this week I have had the privilege to discuss possibilities around the celebration of the tri centenary next year of the legend of English clock making Thomas Tompion. Not to mention a unique collection of Meissen figures that will be brought to the fair. And every now and then, there are some very creative ideas that land on my desk, such as an art sushi performance! The job is a mixture of filtering and searching. My challenge is to find the highest quality of newness, in all material, design and expertise. Masterpiece is not after new for the sake of new and it requires a good eye to see the wood for the trees.