When Wendy Martin bought a mysterious old bed, elaborate but in pieces, she and her family knew it was special.
But it took 30 years for them find out its true purpose - to accommodate the monarch the night before their coronation.
https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-politics-64347139
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The family that bought the King's bed for £100
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- Lemon Quarter
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Re: The family that bought the King's bed for £100
I can't compete with that, but I did once own Ravi Shankar's bed. Which I bought for about two quid in a job lot of used furniture. Complete with attribution. Will that do?
I was freshly arrived in Berlin, and I had not a stick of furniture in my crummy unfurnished flat. A small ad led me to an unpromising high-rise estate in the south of the city, where I was somewhat surprised to meet the chief cultural counsellor from the Indian embassy. (Actually it might have been a consulate at that time, I'm not sure, because Bonn was where all the seriously high-level stuff was based.)
Anyway, this talkative chap had a roomful of scruffy furniture to sell, all of which I was keen to acquire. And when he got to the grotty metal-framed bed, he told me about Shankar's visit to Berlin the previous year, and how he'd stayed with the family, in that very bed. I'll confess that I was sceptical, right up until he showed me a photo of the great man in his flat, tuning up a sitar on what was absolutely, definitely, "my" bed!
And so, for a small banknote, the whole lot was delivered to my abode on the tiniest, grottiest flatbed truck you ever saw, and I slept on it for the rest of my student time in Berlin. (It creaked incessantly.) When I left, I donated my clobber to another penniless student, who was happy to accept that he was sleeping in the Master's bed, but appeared to have no very good idea who he actually was. Never mind, the river of life had flowed on, and the spirit of the revered bed would surely reach the end of its beginning and be mystically reincarnated as a BMW. Peace, man.
BJ
I was freshly arrived in Berlin, and I had not a stick of furniture in my crummy unfurnished flat. A small ad led me to an unpromising high-rise estate in the south of the city, where I was somewhat surprised to meet the chief cultural counsellor from the Indian embassy. (Actually it might have been a consulate at that time, I'm not sure, because Bonn was where all the seriously high-level stuff was based.)
Anyway, this talkative chap had a roomful of scruffy furniture to sell, all of which I was keen to acquire. And when he got to the grotty metal-framed bed, he told me about Shankar's visit to Berlin the previous year, and how he'd stayed with the family, in that very bed. I'll confess that I was sceptical, right up until he showed me a photo of the great man in his flat, tuning up a sitar on what was absolutely, definitely, "my" bed!
And so, for a small banknote, the whole lot was delivered to my abode on the tiniest, grottiest flatbed truck you ever saw, and I slept on it for the rest of my student time in Berlin. (It creaked incessantly.) When I left, I donated my clobber to another penniless student, who was happy to accept that he was sleeping in the Master's bed, but appeared to have no very good idea who he actually was. Never mind, the river of life had flowed on, and the spirit of the revered bed would surely reach the end of its beginning and be mystically reincarnated as a BMW. Peace, man.
BJ
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