Treasure! As far as words go, it must be one of the most exciting.
Think Aladdin, peering into the gloomy cave and feasting
his eyes on glittering gold and sparkling jewels. Or Enid Blyton’s Famous Five, setting off for Treasure Island armed with a map on which a large black cross has been daubed. Think of the treasures coming down from my loft...
You may scoff but the latest find is an actual treasure chest. It’s small, blue and dusty but extremely weighty and, as I remember it, is the property of My Boy when he was a littl’un.
Moreover it is secured by a combination lock which means I can’t open it. How very tantalising.
I send a photo to My Boy who confirms that the treasure chest
is, indeed, his. He guesses that the contents may well be his coin collection which apparently may well include a Charles and Diana commemorative coin. I am not at all sure that would count as treasure but who knows? More importantly, does he know the combination
which will unlock the treasure?
My son suggests I try the numbers of his birthday (I am choosing not to reveal these numbers, just in case he uses them on
other secret depositories.) I have already tried several possible combinations - like 111,123 and 999. I am not very imaginative when it comes to passwords. I do as my son has suggested but the treasure chest remains tightly closed. Aladdin, of course, would
wave a hand above it and chant “Open Sesame!” but that wouldn’t work for me. I know, because I tried...
Mr B suggests I use force which I decline
to do on account of the fact that (I) I am a pacifist and so averse to the use of force as a matter of principle; and (ii) it would be dishonest in the extreme. The treasure chest will just have to remain in the carrier bag with all the other objects so far
rescued from the Lofty Heights and still waiting to be reclaimed.
At Sporting Memories this morning, I tell the gathering about the box of footie programmes I
found among the treasures in the loft. Everybody laughs when I tell them that they are Manchester United programmes - they all know that Mr B is one of Tottenham Hotspur’s most loyal supporters. What is a box of Man United match programmes doing in our
loft? It’s tantamount to football sacrilege. Presuming (correctly) that I will probably want to off-load them on somebody, I receive many helpful suggestions including a pointer to a Man with a Van on the seafront who apparently buys such memorabilia.
The exact location on the sea-front is vague in the extreme and I imagine myself staggering along several miles of sea-front, heavy box in my arms, checking it out. Rather more helpfully, Lovely Rhona wonders whether Sporting Memories themselves might be interested
in relieving me of this Unwanted Treasure. Now that would be an excellent solution in my eyes.
I am keeping Mr B advised of potential treasure though he doesn’t
seem quite so excited as I am at the possibilities. I suppose, I query, that’s because I am his Treasure? (I am not too proud to be angling for a compliment. After all it is Valentine’s Day tomorrow...) Mr B says I am, indeed, his Treasure. Too
late, I notice the wicked glint in his eye as he adds: “I only wish I could remember where I dug you up from...”
He loves me really...