Simon Tait's Mews No.7

First to command our attention was the Circus Maximus, the kind of circus maximus that fits snugly in the corner of a small room rather than the sort where Christians provide the entertainment in their selfless way. This is Michael and Maria Start’s flea circus, with strong-fleas, trapeze-fleas, tug-o-war-fleas and even Ignatius D, the fire-eating flea who, sadly, had the consuming fire process reversed on him and had to be the subject of a flea-funeral; while we sang Candle in the Wind, though, a miracle happened and the valiant, if singed, Ignatius was restored to the company. You don’t have to suspend belief beyond knowing that Michael and Mama Mia, to give her her stage name, also run AutomatomaniA, the country’s only automaton restoration company. He’s a horologist by training, she’s a sculptor, no animal training in either of their CVs.

Rob Higgs starts where Heath Robinson finished – he makes the kind of machines that the other fellow could only draw – and his Corkscrew is here to help the party go with a swing, along with a steady supply of bottles of very agreeable Cotes de Rhone. This enormous piece of machinery, weighing half a ton and made from found pieces of metal bolted and welded together, not only draws the cork from a bottle of wine with a steady whirr of gears and levers, but pours exactly the right amount of the contents into a waiting glass – without spilling a drop. It was brought not by Rob but by Michael Young of Oneofonehundred, the Lincolnshire-based company that discovers and markets unusually talented designers and makers. Did he have a night to remember!

The greats are all here in the throng, Tim Hunkin, Paul Spooner, Keith Newstead, Carlos Zapata, and new talent in the CMT fold – like Pascale Michalski who brought the most extraordinary gothick house for us to see, a pile as mysterious and fascinating as any Gormenghast – complete with music played in the machine from the kind of paper disc they used for pianolas which Pascale had also made. And Fi Henshall, Rob’s next door neighbour in Penryn in Cornwall, or rather next boat neighbour because they both live afloat. She is a puppetmaker but the arrival of Ella two or three years ago confined her to quayside, where she produces beautifully carved and painted machines in which, for instance, the tables are turned on the magician who saws a lady in half.

And then there was Richard Garriott, computer games millionaire, astronaut, son of an astronaut and collector of automata. Still in his forties, this man – born on the fourth of July – grew up in the Houston household of a Skylab astronaut, Owen Garriott since you ask, and with astronaut families living either side, an ethos where imagination and reality collide. So Richard did the obvious thing: he travelled to the new world of fantasy computer games, made his fortune there, and a couple of years ago took himself home by buying a £30m ride in the International Space Station, where you get four sunrises and four sunsets in a day. What must that do to our personal mechanics? Anyway, before he was allowed to go aloft by Space Adventures (of which he is now a board member, naturally) this Astronaut Garriott was found to have a minor abnormality in his liver and was obliged to undergo major surgery before they would let him go. He showed us the L-shaped scar to prove it. But with him into the cosmos he took the tiniest automaton he could lay his hands, barely an inch high, which is a bush that blossoms and flowers and then releases a pair of butterflies, a little bit of man-made earthliness. For this is also Automotonaut Garriott, who has acquired so many machines, he reckons about 500 or so but can’t be sure, of all sizes (and many made by tonight’s party-goers) that he had to build an extra wing on his mansion in Austin, Texas. Keith presented him with an addition to the collection, a tiny astronaut floating in space around the globe, and waving to us poor earthlings below. It took Keith about an hour to make, a fraction of the time it must have taken to create Richard’s other new acquisition which he brought for us to see, a tiny gold and silver watch in which there are no hands or faces, except those on the lady musician and the young conductor who as they make the music the piece plays. It was made in Paris more than two centuries ago, and Richard bought it at Christie’s the other day.

Blimey, there was enough inspiration buzzing around HQ CMT’s seasonal summit to keep my unandroidal brain spinning in orbit for ever, so a Mechanical Christmas to you all and a Happy Mews Year.