Opinion

Anita Robinson: Finding gems amid the afternoon TV junk

The Repair Shop, on BBC One, is perfect afternoon television
The Repair Shop, on BBC One, is perfect afternoon television The Repair Shop, on BBC One, is perfect afternoon television

LAST week I suffered the worst social embarrassment any woman can. I fell over in public.

At least it was indoors in the hair salon. And I was wearing flat shoes, which I rarely do.

Anyway I lost my balance just inside the door and keeled slowly westwards towards the big picture window, bringing down a tasteful display of hair products and denting both my dignity and the umbrella stand.

Numbed by shock and quite enjoying the solicitous sympathy from all the staff with offers of coffee, "a wee tablet" and "we'll get you home", I stoutly stated, "I'm fine, thank you."

"D'you want to go ahead with the blow dry?" asked the stylist.

"Of course," I said, "you only skip a hair appointment if you're dying."

I drove home with that 'outside of yourself' feeling and of course, reaction set in as the shock wore off.

My hair was lovely, the rest of me was wrecked. Anyway, no lasting damage. All this merely as preamble to the joys of compulsory idleness...

People talk of the evils of afternoon television, the mesmeric power of dross to swallow up valuable time, but I've discovered a daily menu of programmes right up my street.

After five days I'm hooked and organising my life around them.

First is a brisk and bossy lady who haunts dumps - sorry, 'civic amenity sites' - and hijacks people's stuff before they can heave it into a skip.

The salvaged items she takes to specialist craftspeople who redesign and repurpose the most unprepossessing junk into unique and valuable artefacts.

Personally, I wouldn't have a battered metal filing cabinet transformed into an Art Deco aluminium-lined cocktail cabinet that lights up when you open the door, but somebody bought it for 750 smackers.

There's a fabulous blacksmith who produces wrought-iron tracery delicate as ferns and two young woodworkers whose originality and skills are hypnotic to watch.

The ancient arts and expertise of our forebears are enjoying a resurgence, catering for a generation weary of mass-produced tat.

The bossy lady sells the product and fetches up at the donor's house with the profit.

Donor is thrilled but rarely manages more than a strangulated "Amazing" when shown the finished work.

Listed in Collins Thesaurus are 16 perfectly adequate synonyms for "amazing". Can we choose an alternative please?

Culturally further upmarket is the tweely-titled Home is Where the Art Is, in which three professional artists working in different disciplines - glass, paint, wood, metal, ceramic - pitch for a single contract worth up to £1,000.

Their preparation - free rein of the client's house to get the feel and the look.

Lord, but some houses are crammed to the rafters with stuff, ranging from kitsch to quality.

You would be forgiven for thinking, "Where's the client going to put the finished masterpiece?"

And some people's taste? I can think of nothing more intrusive than three strangers rummaging in my cupboards, bookshelves and drawers trying to get a 'fix' on my character.

One bohemian contestant ate the client's dog biscuits. He didn't make the final cut.

Two artists complete the brief and present it to the client who chooses their favourite.

Invariably, I choose the one the client rejects and argue with the television. There's no accounting for tastes.

Being a butter-hearted soul, my favourite of the trio is The Repair Shop, where people bring broken items of sentimental value for repair and restoration - anything from a mechanical jumping tiger to a damaged painting or a seized-up clockwork train, from a battered fifties slot machine to balding teddies and a ventriloquist's dummy.

The restorers talk quietly as they work and their painstaking care, superb skills and commitment to success are remarkable.

Skills are generously shared - many hands may work on a single piece. And all of it takes place in a traditionally thatched barn in rural England.

The camera pans across the landscape as the seasons turn, every shot an idyllic framed picture; the narrator is a velvet-voiced actor.

The 'big reveal' as the owner - often elderly - is reunited with his treasure is a model of dignified restraint, a surreptitious wiping away of a tear or two and a hearty handshake. Perfect...