Lately I've been looking a some my stuff with new eyes; things I've dragged from city to country, house to house.
I think it's all part of getting used to the idea of having our own home (we plan to start serious house-hunting in lat Feb). Anyway, I was thinking about how every-day objects can be significant - a vessel we fill with private meaning and significance.
I don't treat every single thing I own with the same level of intensity but I think it explains my habit of picking up rocks, sticks, feathers and shells - they each have a secret life. They all become a little talisman, a reminder of a happy moment I'm not quite ready to forget.
My mum gave me this Tablespoon years and years ago. I think it was when I first moved out of home. I have a vague recollection of cooking something - feeling very independent and not having one.
I love this spoon - it's strong, faded, reliable, lovely to hold and to look at, slightly battered and I've used it a billion times and it's always exactly where I think it will be.