Βι¶ΉΤΌΕΔ

Thieves stole one of Angela Robinson's most treasured possessions ...

Each time I lift the lid of my sewing box, I think 'I wish...'. The sad thing is that if only it hadn't been so precious to me, it might still be there. I wanted to keep it safe, really safe. I took it from its friends the cottons, buttons, elastic, strands of silk, darning wool and scraps of material intended for patching garments long since discarded. I found the thimble a new special home with my other treasures. The silver nurses buckle my husband bought to celebrate my finals result, his army cap badge, the eternity ring he presented to me on the birth of our first son who died when he was just 4 years old.

Together my treasures rested in a red leather jewel box lined with the palest oyster-coloured satin. The small box held safe treasures and memories of years past. It was a pretty silver thimble, intricate flower heads each with five minute petals had been delicately tooled around it. The centre of one of the flowers had worn into a tiny hole, where my granny and her mother before her had pressed the eye of their needle in the same spot again and again. As a tiny child I would watch granny turning collars, darning socks, patching sheets, using the little thimble to press the needle on its way. Always she would wear the little silver thimble to do the sewing. Granny gave me the thimble when she could no longer see to sew. She knew I would treasure it. I used it to replace the awful rubbery buttons on my nurses uniform with some mother-of-pearl ones from granny's button tin. Later, I used it together with her wooden mushroom to help me darn my children's hand-knitted socks.

Time has moved on for all of us. Granny has long since died. The children have grown up and the need for patching and darning has disappeared with the use of modern materials and with the birth of the disposable society. But the thimble remained there in my treasure box. There to hold, to touch, to place on my finger as Granny had done countless times before. It evoked memories and brought strange peace when my husband died and I felt alone in the world. It's gone now. Along with all the contents of my treasure box. Taken by thieves to exchange for a very small pot of gold. It meant so much to me. A treasure without price. So little to them. A thimble with a hole in it. Valueless.

Μύ