Nothing pulls rank like a slot on Antiques Roadshow

Dear Readers, I have reached peak middle-aged, middle class. Is there a prize? I already have the hand-whittled spurtle and English Heritage membership, thanks.

These days there are any number of MCMs (middle-class markers) – both glaringly obvious, like owning a boot room and waiting until after Christmas lunch to open your presents, and more discreet, like not putting the central heating on when guests come to stay.

A pair of insane springer spaniels. Waitrose deliveries. A £4,000,000 tax bill. All well and good, but nothing pulls rank among the arrivistes like appearing on Antiques Roadshow with a family heirloom. Oh yes.

I cannot believe how it has cemented our social status; I expect we shall be the talk of the Assembly Rooms, Mr Bennet. Why, our daughters are bound to marry well, are they not?

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Loyal followers of this column (but I tautologise) may remember that last year, the Antiques Roadshow came to my manor. Not literally, I’m in a Victorian terrace, but rest assured it’s like Sir John Soanes’ Museum in here, crammed with tasteful curiosities and unique objets décoratifs.

So many locals turned up for filming (sharp-elbowed, the middle classes) that the footage yielded three episodes. Our dog, Otto, a strikingly handsome Manchester terrier, made the cut in the first part.

When the third part was screened last Sunday, my husband had quite given up hope until 10 minutes from the end – there he was! He looked like a kindly Viking in a linen shirt, I thought. He was torn between mortification at appearing quite so crumpled and ancien régime pride at the excitement generated by his unpolished tompion, featuring a bas-relief of Queen Elizabeth I.

What’s a tompion? I should have thought every respectable family of note would have one. Depending on who’s asking, I tell them these were circular metal covers designed to seal the muzzles of naval artillery, or “a butt plug for a big gun”.

Not only was my husband heartily praised for being too lazy to polish the brass which would have seriously impacted its collectibility, the armaments expert Robert Tilney, he of the magnificent moustache, concluded this particular fine example, cast in 1913 for HMS Queen Elizabeth, never saw service.

My husband’s maternal grandfather was a Swan, part of the notable Tyneside shipbuilding family, and during the First World War was in charge of the installation of naval guns for the huge armaments manufacturer Armstrong Whitworth.

It’s likely that the tompion was one of three he got given as a retirement gift when he left the firm in 1928. Like a travel clock, but heavy enough to break your foot. And your arm.

Since then it’s largely lived inside a wardrobe. Or it did. Not any more. It’s wrapped in a blanket in the back of the sitting room.

The tompion was valued at £1800. I know. That response – head nodding, faint smile – is another class marker. Here in the squeezed middle, we need at least another nought, preferably two to be properly, visibly impressed.

Not enough to retire on, but definitely to dine out on. I’ve been fielding texts from friends who almost dropped their restorative Sunday night snifters when my spouse appeared.

Some neighbours asked for a private view but I gave them short shrift, saying he was far too tired from all his exertions. On reflection, they maybe meant the tompion.

I do hope we find somewhere ostentatiously downbeat to put it where everyone would see it, rather like celebrities who keep their Oscars in the downstairs loo (much to the absolute horror of Americans). You know, at times like this I feel quite miffed I don’t have a boot room.