The unpacking has slowed to a snail’s pace. The initial enthusiasm has dwindled with promises for New Year and a fresh start. Possibly with fingers crossed. There is one thing, or rather four, that I would really like to find. Our best plates for Christmas dinner.
Today I had another heave ho ho ho and rummage through bubble wrap and newspaper, all to no avail and a twinging back. What I did find was this little doll, which coincidentally I had been talking to my mum about, only a few days ago.
This elegant lady was given to me when I was a little girl by a friend of Peggy. In fact Barbara had been her bridesmaid. For some time Barbara was a missionary in India and I can only assume this is where my precious doll came from. There are lots of things I don’t remember. I don’t remember being given her. I don’t remember playing with her, but at the same time I can’t remember being told I couldn’t. I do, however, remember that I have always loved her, her draping sari and ruby necklace. And I felt the very same this morning, as I unwrapped her from lace-edged napkins, which I picked up at a jumble sale years ago, in the hope the one day I either be posh enough to use them or find an alternative to justify their existence. I smoothed the folds of her skirt, ran my hand over her raven hair and admired her rosebud mouth. Still lovely to me.
Now you must excuse me. I’ve just had some inspiration. I have an inkling where those plates might be. One last hope.