Mad About The Find
Kate Watson-Smyth on the joyful serendipity of finding treasure — and the one that got away
I initially reached out to Kate Watson-Smyth because, well, I am a huge fan of her long-running blog, Mad About the House — which has spawned five books and a Substack newsletter — and her general aesthetic. She’s clever and interesting and remarkable (she’s in the process of renovating a 300-year-old villa in northwest Italy!) And, like me, her background is in journalism (she’s written for The Guardian and The Daily Mail, among others), so I view her as something of a kindred spirit, even if only digitally.
Being a fan, I wanted to feature her in The Best Thing I Ever Thrifted, a series in which I share the best finds of people I admire. But when she responded with the below (beautiful) essay about many of her best finds ever — and one that got away — I knew it had to be published in its entirety.
So here you have it: the first-ever guest post on What’s Left. It’s such a good one.
Thank you, Kate.
In my early 20s I lived in Paris with a girl called Sunshine (yes, really). She told me that if we made the trek to the chic 16th arrondissement on a Thursday evening from our tiny, unheated flat — where the walls dripped water and we opened the oven for warmth — we would discover all sort of treasures wealthy Parisians had put outside for collection by the binmen the next morning.
It was my first experience of thrifting: the art of finding something old or unloved and taking it for your own. It’s how I acquired a pretty floral eiderdown which I kept for many years, although sadly my husband didn’t feel quite the same love for thrifted bedding and it was “lost” in one of our many moves.
Back then we didn’t have the money to spend on furnishings, and thrifting was a means to an end — giving a new lease of life to stuff that other people had cast aside. Later, when I had a job and there was a little bit of money, it became known as buying “second-hand” and was about opportunistically picking up the things that others outgrew, as they upgraded from a small table to a larger one, a stovetop kettle to an electric, two dining chairs to four. There was no glamour and no sense that we needed to save the planet. It was simply about finding a way to afford what we needed.
By the early 1990s I had moved to study journalism in Darlington, in the north of England, and the car boot sale arrived. This felt new and exciting, and for a few quid I bought a huge, heavy mirror that still hangs in our hall today. I also picked up an old tea chest to use as a bedside table. I still have the scar where I fell out of bed and scraped my arm on its sharp metal corner.
A little later, along came the internet, and with it the ability to hunt down treasure people didn’t know they had. Sites grew up with names like Fat Fingers, where you could search for items that might be commonly misspelt (EEmes and Emes, for example). It added value to what was by now known as pre-loved rather than merely second-hand, which carried a slight stigma rather than the virtue it connotes today. But it took much of the romance out of things.
My most practical buy was probably a pair of kitchen stools listed for £60 on eBay. They are useful, they were cheap, I like them. But there was no shimmer in their purchase.
I tend to use eBay for highly specific purposes — things I know I need. Last summer we bought a pair of vintage wooden single-bed frames, which we then repurposed into two double headboards. Modern beds are wider than old ones and we hadn’t been able to find antique headboards the right size for less than several hundred pounds. These cost us about €150 and two afternoons with a drill and a tape-measure. Again, it was purely transactional: You have it, I want it. I don’t care to know why you are selling and you don’t care what I will use it for.
The thing about buying something vintage from a physical shop or a market is that you never forget when you first saw it. I remember the day I walked past Junk & Disorderly (again, yes really) with my sons (then about 8 and 10) on our way back from school. In the window was an old drinks trolley with a map under the glass. We wheeled it home with the school bags on top. It lives in my sitting room now.
Or the chaise lounge in the house clearance store that was newly reupholstered and underpriced at £200 by the owner’s slightly absent-minded father. The son very kindly honoured the price but told us he had planned to sell it for £500.
That is the joyful serendipity that makes you feel lucky all day. I remember the time my husband and I were driving back from the tip after a long-overdue clear-out. Suddenly he slammed the brakes on and leapt out of the car. He returned triumphantly holding a small mid-century side table that had been left on the pavement. It sat in the corner of our bedroom for many years. It would still be there now if my art student son hadn’t whisked it away to his own flat when we weren’t paying attention.
My own roadside find was less serendipitous, as The Mad Husband never fails to remind me. Scouring a junk shop near our first flat, in 1998, I wandered out to the back and saw a pale blue rattan armchair by Lloyd Loom. We had just painted our bedroom Berrington (by Farrow & Ball) and I knew that vintage chairs of this type would be hard to find and expensive to buy. It was grubby and had been outside for a while, so when the owner said we could have it for free along with the chest of drawers we had paid for, I happily chucked it into the boot of the car.
And then we noticed the smell.
“It just needs to air in the garden for a bit,” I said confidently.
“You actually found it outside,” came the reply.
I took it to our tiny patio and began scrubbing. Then I realised the seat came up. This was no ordinary Lloyd Loom chair — it was a commode and the smell of wee was unremovable. It went to the tip (ed. note: “the tip” is a British-ism for “the dump.”)
But for the most part, there is more romance in a real-life vintage hunt. My younger son, a 21-year-old art student who likes a good lie-in, will happily set his alarm to make a weekly trip to the Sunday morning vintage market in Pimlico, central London. He also found an original Pierre Balmain cashmere sweater for €1 at an Italian flea market. His elder brother was seething with jealousy, but then he picked up a vintage Marlboro Classics suede jacket, so all’s fair in brotherly love and thrifting.
There is also something undeniably more enticing about a foreign market. In the UK I might size up an old painting and see nothing. In Italy that changes completely. Your Nonna no longer wants this plastic kitchen timer shaped like a green pepper? Hand it to me now. The Fifties’ oil painting of two fried eggs? I totally need that.
Over the last couple of years, we have become regular visitors to the Gran Balon of Turin — Europe’s largest open air flea market — as we search for finishing touches for our house. We have picked up plates for €1 and pictures for €10 – but there is one item I have seen twice now, so the question becomes: Is it stalking me and do I need it? Somehow, I feel the very existence of a gold leather hedgehog handbag means someone needs to be wearing it. If it’s still there next time that will be me.
All this reminds me of the one that got away. Years ago I logged onto eBay for the very first time — it was probably around 2005 — 10 years after it launched. I saw a rare Verpan chair from a 1998 collaboration with Habitat. I placed a bid and went to bath the children. By the time I returned it had sold to someone else. Reader, I had never wanted anything more. But then, as I was asked to write this post, I remembered it — and lo and behold I found another. Should I?
A tremendous thank you to Kate Watson-Smyth for sharing her home, and her finds, with us. Subscribe to her Substack, if you don’t already.
And I’ll leave you with this…
 | A guest post by
|
What's the word? Self-confirmation?! Love this! My house is full of curbside pick-ups, things bought in vide greniers in France, "do you want this old things," beautiful objects that sing to me! Thanks the peak into Kate's house! It's the perfect motivator for my Deep Clean, loving my space week! Love your Space!!!
I lived in Barcelona in the late 80s and, like Kate, furnished entire flats with things people left out to be collected. Beautiful Art Deco units and ornate mirrors that were no longer loved (we want big black 80s furniture) but snapped us by us. Thank you for reminding me of those times.