they say the French are glad to die for love


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This ruby necklace is one of the most precious things that I own. Even though it’s by far my favourite piece of jewellery, I hardly ever wear it out, because I’m terrified that the thin, delicate string the gems have been crudely re-strung on will snap, and I will have to watch helplessly as they scatter all over the pavement and out of my possession forever. So instead I keep it in a green silk bag, inside my jewellery box. I will have to have it re-strung properly one day, when I find the time, but for now it’s being kept safe, and occasionally taken out to be held, or stroked, or used in a photo-shoot. I’m pretty sure that when I stare at it, my eyes must light up with deranged glee. Like Gollum.

It is strange how love for an object (or person, or idea) can breed a level of jealousy that makes us keep the beloved hidden away, out of sight from all who may wish to harm it, or take it from us. Like the new boyfriend that you don’t really want to introduce to any of your girlfriends. Or the cafe you always go to alone, because they only ever have a few pieces of that cake you like, and if anyone finds out, chances are some days you’ll have to pick something else. Like the shortbread. Or the coffee cake. And that’s just shit. And besides, they only have that one perfect table in the corner where you can reach the plug for your laptop without being in direct sunlight. So actually, there’s really no sense in shooting yourself in the foot by telling the whole town about it, and relegating yourself to coffee cake and a wobbly table in the middle of the room. Fuck that noise. Not worth the risk. I’m good at being reckless with a lot of things (like my health, or my self-respect), but not my cake. Or my jewellery. Some stuff is just sacred, you know?

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