This morning was spent dusting the minutiae of life. Ornaments from family, friends and work colleagues are scattered on the shelving. As I dusted I recalled each gift. The first toby jug given by my mother, an ornament from Spain from my father. Wooden elephants from Africa. The beautiful bird delicately painted on ivory and framed in blue golds and pinks from Iran. The brass horse purchased from the bazaar in Tehran. As I handle it the memory floods back; the smells, the people pushing and shoving their way along the narrow alleys. The shop so much like an Alladins cave.

Dishes from Jerusalem given by a Jewish friend. A vase of Capodimonti purchased on skiing holiday in Italy. A beswick wren bought for me by my husband on our first holiday in Scotland. We drove up from London in our little green Triumph Spitfire. The hood down, the wind in our hair. Numerous plates collected and given as gifts from around the word, Iran, India, Abu Dhabi, Greece, Eastern Europe, Spain, Portugal, Amersterdam. So many memories. The soap stone hand carved chess set from Rhodesia given by friends. Where are they now I wonder as I handle the pieces. A collection of small wedgewood dishes this one from Georgine, that one from Peter, that one from Bill and that one from John. Royal Doulton figurines and toby jugs bought at an auction. As I gently handle and polish them I recall the auction of over a thousand pieces. A collection broken up on the death of the original collector through cancer. The proceeds going to cancer reseach. I think of her each time I hold a piece. She would have cherished the pieces as I do. Little ornaments from my children given as presents over the years. A robin sitting upon a kettle, a mouse climbing a flower stem. Lilliput Lane cottages, this one from my husband - how I dreamt of living in a thatched cottage in Devon when we were first married - his gift telling me that he had not forgotten this dream even though our travels have led us to live life in Australia. The memory lives on in this handcrafted cottage scattered amongst other relics.

The Ercol furniture upon which they sit has begun to age over the past twenty-five years. Here and there a small dent. As I polish I notice little hand marks from my four year old grandson. How he loves coming into this room, looking at my treasures and handling them. Each one has a story which I tell to him and retell. Each toby jug has a life of its own. My father would tell me stories and I now pass similar stories on to him.

Yes my collection has grown over the years. Each piece is a precious memory of places visited and of the people I love and know and are the minutiae of my life.