At the Ikon Market

It's been a bad time in the "retreat knick-knacks" world. Trouble is the market in painted pebbles, small icons and carved hazelnuts is firmly "discretionary spending" when the chips are down. And the doily market is practically underwater.

So in an attempt to put a bit of a spring in the step, we thought we'd run an "Ikon Market". The chance for people to pitch their stalls and, for a reasonable rent, get the chance to sell ikons and other religious symbols to a grateful and spiritually-aware public.

In a stark contrast to Beaker tradition, it's been a massive success.This is partly down to the untapped springs of spiritual longing that lie along the ethereal waterline of our post-modern scarp slope. Partly down to my ability to mix dreadful metaphor in a way that some specially sensitive - or, as I think of them, "susceptible" - people find convincing. And partly down to the completely brazen way in which Young Keith fooled a great chunk of the neighbourhood into thinking that the Olympic Flame was going through the grounds of the Great House today.

Never mind that the real Olympic Flame is currently somewhere off beyond the Cotswolds. Keith justified this lie in his own mind by persuading himself that it's a bit like all the Santas in shopping centres come Christmas - they're all acting in loco Santa, and therefore are every bit as good as the real one.

So in an attempt to maintain this falsehood, poor Marston had to run through the grounds this afternoon, dressed in a tracksuit with a headband and carrying aloft one of Young Keith's Olympic Torch desserts - a giant brandysnap cone filled with ice cream, fruit salad, the top two inches soaked in brandy and set on fire.

So the good news is that we made a fortune - turns out there's nothing the people want so much as a triptych ikon of Steve Redgrave, Beth Tweddle and Andy Murray. Rolling in it, we are. And all without a stain on my soul - though I can't speak for Young Keith's.