It's not the done thing to admit how attached we become to inanimate objects. We're always told that people, rather than stuff, is where we ought to find our fulfilment. And while I absolutely do just that, it doesn't stop me deriving enormous comfort from some of the material goods that I own, and with which The Writer and I have filled our flat.
I won't be alone in saying that the objects I treasure most aren't particularly those with the most monetary value (my engagement and wedding rings notwithstanding...): the trinket pot my grandfather brought back from Christmas Island after the war; the drum my Tanzanian pupils gave me when it was time to come home; and various kitchen implements that belonged to my late Granny all have a special place in my heart.
One thing which sits on our kitchen side that gives me enormous comfort every time I look at it is particularly run of the mill: nothing out of the ordinary, a birthday present from my sister, and not something that I'd ever have bought for myself.
It's a small white porcelain dish, about 6cm across, shaped like a teapot. It's printed with the words "Where there's tea, there's hope", and is quite often piled higher than it should be with teabags that have been there longer than they should have been, cold and damp and crusty around the edges, before someone scoops them into the small green compost bin by the door.
And despite its mundanity, its lack of glamour, every time I look at it and splodge down a steaming bag of cast-off Earl Grey, it represents a familiarity that's hard to replicate or manufacture.
It's something that TW and I both use every day of the week, without thought or consideration, but would both notice if it weren't there. It represents a level of comfort, of moments and days and lives shared. Of home. And because of that, it's priceless.
I won't be alone in saying that the objects I treasure most aren't particularly those with the most monetary value (my engagement and wedding rings notwithstanding...): the trinket pot my grandfather brought back from Christmas Island after the war; the drum my Tanzanian pupils gave me when it was time to come home; and various kitchen implements that belonged to my late Granny all have a special place in my heart.
One thing which sits on our kitchen side that gives me enormous comfort every time I look at it is particularly run of the mill: nothing out of the ordinary, a birthday present from my sister, and not something that I'd ever have bought for myself.
It's a small white porcelain dish, about 6cm across, shaped like a teapot. It's printed with the words "Where there's tea, there's hope", and is quite often piled higher than it should be with teabags that have been there longer than they should have been, cold and damp and crusty around the edges, before someone scoops them into the small green compost bin by the door.
And despite its mundanity, its lack of glamour, every time I look at it and splodge down a steaming bag of cast-off Earl Grey, it represents a familiarity that's hard to replicate or manufacture.
It's something that TW and I both use every day of the week, without thought or consideration, but would both notice if it weren't there. It represents a level of comfort, of moments and days and lives shared. Of home. And because of that, it's priceless.
