Driving back between Tunbridge Wells and Crawley today, I was struck by a memory. It had just started to rain, and for reasons I can't fathom, I thought about a set of inks.
There were eight of them, they came in little bottles, and each bottle came in a small, square cardboard box with an illustration connected to the colour of the ink. The eight boxes were arranged into two rows of four, one on top of the other, and all together they came in a clear plastic case.
They were originally spotted in an art shop. It may have been locally or perhaps on holiday (maybe a rainy day on a summer holiday - perhaps a connection that sparked a memory - who knows?), but once spotted, for reasons that probably couldn't be clearly articulated, they were wanted. Truth be told, I probably wanted them because they looked nice in their case and the boxes had fun illustrations. It's not like I had much idea what to do with a set of artist's inks.
However, Mum was with me, and was persuaded to purchase the inks (Mum - you really were amazingly generous!) and they were brought home with much pride.
But here's the thing. I remember the inks very clearly - I remember how they looked, the bottles, the boxes and their illustrations, how the set fitted together into the case, and I took much pleasure from owning them. However, I have absolutely no recollection of ever using them to paint a picture!
In fact, I think I probably still have them somewhere - they may well be in one of those boxes in the loft containing those 'treasured possessions from years gone by from which one simply cannot be parted'.
Well, maybe next time I open a box and find them, I should open the bottles and paint a picture or two. I think I've waited long enough!