Reading Country Life this morning while lounging after breakfast I remarked openly (as I have frequently pondered privately) that the magazine is an unending temptation to buy and to spend. The two are naturally aligned but one precedes the other of course. It matters not however (at least not to the reader) whether one is unable to accomplish the peril; though certainly it likely does matter to the estate agents, architects, builders, goldsmiths, auctioneers, museums, art gallery concierges, furniture retailers and tradesmen who undertake the risk of advertizing themselves or their wares in the magazine. The vulgar retail underlay is redeemingly besotted with fascinating chronicled accounts, embellishing manor photographs and uplifting (though frequently dangerously historical) accounts of fishing, hunting, guffawing and guzzling, recipes, book reviews, travel logs, automobiles, Luxury Notebooks (pens, bicycles and nosegays), independent boarding and day schools, interior decorating, rug cleaning and repair, decorative arts, a young woman of note (curiously a feature never recorded in the Table of Contents though regularly published), riddles, crosswords and puzzles, cartoon, antiquities, insurance and finally classified advertising of it all.

There is accordingly a very real possibility that all that business of retail acquisitions (spirited and commingled as it is with reported celebrity) has the desired effect of encouraging readers to spend their money. Meanwhile the unsuspecting reader is unwarily removed from the satisfaction of his or her present domain while lusting after the weekly published improvements. I at least have the dubious gratification of knowing that my death is imminent (whether by virture of a recent diagnosis or simply the admitted effluxion of time). The intangible though undeniable prospect of death easily removes the captivating allure of repeated retail activity.  I am thus both by design and by nature dissolved to the putatively rational posture that I have enough already.

This however is a small compliment.  I am only capable of presuming this lofty commitment of sufficiency because with old age and declining memory I can absorb only so much.  Even the small drawer of unattended trinkets and jewellery in my bedroom cabinet is something I seldom investigate. And apart from the Apple Watch, the battery-powered and mechanical watches and pocket watch are history. Instead I devote my attention to what is currently upon my pinky finger and right-fourth; or hanging about my neck.  As for art, we have adopted that model called gallery display or words to that effect.  Essentially we haven’t another space on any wall throughout the apartment to hang another painting.  And then there’s furnishings.  Don’t get me started!  When we downsized from our rural residence and urban condominium we gave away endless pieces (notwithstanding my failed initial attempt to warehouse them on site). Now that we rent, we haven’t to worry about property management or caretaking; it’s all part of an App in which we merely type the issue then press send.  We had the rugs cleaned. The dealership advised last week that my new car is due to arrive in 4 to 6 weeks. My reading is submerged in Thomas Babington Macaulay’s 5-volume History of England from the Accession of James II. My once much admired Sheaffer, Parker, Mont Blanc and Cross pens rest forgotten inside the centre drawer of my desk upon the crystal holder surrounded by unused inkwells and cartridges imported from Paris, France. I honestly can’t recall the last time I wrote anything. Even my signature is on the computer. The radio on my study desk has suffered the same exhaustion for the same reason; viz., technology.

And yet my indomitable fascination with Country Life persists. Although I have always dismissed my retail curiosity as the sediment of profligacy, I am discovering – albeit only lately in life – that the corruption is far more metaphysical than I had accorded it to be. When once one has removed the superfluous ingredients of retail (that is, denominations of luxury and privilege for example) the lingering sinews of the addiction are far more seemly. There is after all a reason a well-reputed retailer touts its approbation by the Crown. Being fit for a queen is more than an acknowledgement of ownership; it is a recognition of worth and artistry.  Seeing a repeat exemplification of these superior characteristics week after week, year after year, century after century in Country Life is proof of the winning nature of material perfection in a world already burdened with charismatic ethereal options. Paradoxically Country Life has become my vicarious vehicle of acquisition, a weekly exuberance I am able to fulfill without remorse or offending pallor. Nay, Country Life is my catharsis, my deliverance from repression.