When I moved to Yorkshire, my possessions were
few. The only furniture I owned was a desk and a folding chair, although
I did buy a bed on the day I moved in. I had some precious photos to
put on the walls, but that was pretty much it. This was partly through
circumstance, but mainly because that was how I liked it; minimal. And,
if you'd asked me this morning, I'd still have said that I prefer not to be
surrounded by a load of things. (Apart from my desk, but that's just work
in progress, obviously.) Then I came home tonight and, while washing
up my breakfast things, I realised just how much stuff I've accumulated
because, in the words of William Morris, I know it to be useful or believe it
to be beautiful.
This, for example, is only part of the stuff
surrounding my kitchen sink.
Left to right, back row: 2 wine jugs from a French
boot fair, pot plant, stones from Suffolk, vase of flowers, 1 large sheep and 2
small elephants, stones from Yorkshire with a small wooden angel I found in the
garden, another pot plant, shell from Carnac, beermat from Suffolk, (Adnams
Bitter, I'm afraid, but a nice picture) stones from France, a salt candle
holder and a small hanging lamp (not hanging from anything).
Front row: ceramic yoghurt pot, strainer spoon, coasters,
dog biscuits, 2p coins, 1p coins, handcream, liquid soap and paint brushes for
when I get round to putting another coat of enamel over the nasty grey
trim on the kitchen cupboards.
I think it's a sign of a full and happy life.
That is my story, and I'm sticking to it like chewing gum to the cat.
