Does anyone else get really attached to inanimate objects? I mean, really emotionally involved, with things like spoons and socks and quilt covers? Because I do.
I’m currently in mourning, because following Tony’s car accident, they decided to write our car off as an insurance loss. I never got to say goodbye to her! And now, before she’s cold in her scrapyard grave, he’s gone and bought a new car. And it’s nothing like the last one. It’s like my cat died, and he immediately went out and bought a python as a replacement. It’s indecent. I hate the new ‘car’ (imagine me making vicious speech marks with my fingers as I say that) passionately. I want my old car back. I want it back.
And I have many other attachments to objects, many favourites. I have a favourite spoon (it has a delicate dotted border on the handle, and just the right bowl depth for a perfect mouthful of food), a favourite mug (and if Tony brings me tea in any other cup, it gets sent back to be decanted into the right cup). I hurry certain items of clothing through the laundry so I can wear them again, I use one particular pillowcase over and over until it’s more holes than fabric, and even then I can’t part with it because I’d feel too guilty discarding it just because it’s got old and ragged.
Now, the oddest thing about all this is that I don’t know why something becomes a favourite. Why did this one particular spoon win my heart? Why do I favour my blue stripy mug over all the other lovely cups I have? Who knows. Love is a strange thing to explain.
Even love for one’s cutlery.