The first was a farm sale. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision to go and such fun to mooch around, bump into people not seen for a long time and rummage among somebody else's treasures.

The daughter's eye was caught by a really old china tea set, with tiny little milk jug and so-on, made especially for the hands of children. It was an early lot number so was soon secured for the princely sum of £4. Her mother got a box of old bottles with rubber stoppers, perfect for storing sloe gin, for a £1. Her brother, on the other hand, had a much longer wait (about 400 items further on). He'd sat himself down at a pretty ancient school desk with ink well and attached chair, grimacing at anybody who came near for over two and-a-half hours. With the help of some emotional blackmail, pointing out to the only rival bidder the in-situ curly creature, it was knocked down to us for £14. Some pine shelves were next to it so we ended up with two things for the price of one.

We also picked up a tack box for £3 and my sister-in-law was even egged on into borrowing the buyer's number and bidding for some horse books – securing the entire collection for £1. As she did so the baby niece gurgled something seemingly quite important at
the auctioneer.

We arrived home tired but with a real buzz, the items dropped off by the "nice young man" who was the auctioneer. Our bidding technique was to look at the ground for as long as we could, only raising our hands a fraction of a second before they looked like giving up.

The second special moment came while out with the daughter and the pony. She'd nagged to go out for a "proper ride" down the road all through the school holidays. With the new shoes bought and the uniform laid out for the morning it could be put off no longer.

You see, even though her four legged-friend is perfectly fine in traffic, it's the most stressful experience. The pony gets put up on the pavement, and yours truly is wedged between them and the road with more fluorescent gear than a building site. But still drivers whizz past at seemingly ever-faster speeds. It's only when my arm gets flapping like a demented budgie that some, not all, seem to register and ease their foot off the throttle a bit.

Anyway, we got down the road into the village and disappeared off down onto a track (the temptation was to stop at the pub and down a gin for the nerves). We spotted some brambles and stopped to pick them, the pony nibbling leaves while we made short work of the berries.

It was as near heaven as could be imagined. Just short of a sip out of those little china cups…