This afternoon, we finally hauled the boxes down from the loft.

It was a bit like finding presents under the tree on Christmas Day morning. Wondering what each carefully newspaper-wrapped parcel contained; our delight as long-forgotten items saw the light of day for the first time in nearly twenty years. Like this ornate, silver claret jug, gifted to my paternal grandfather when he retired as the senior doctor at a medical practice near Salisbury, in the late 1950s.

Then there were the surprises, such as this plate.

I hadn’t given it a moment’s thought in all these years. Yet, as soon as I saw it, I was back in the small, always chilly, kitchen in my maternal grandmother’s flat. The plate was displayed alongside that year’s RSPB slimline calendar, turned to whichever month and bird illustration it was, and a colourful array of her favourite postcards, sent to her by friends, charting their holidays and travels.

After much light-hearted debate, we’ve decided that we really don’t need yet more cups and saucers, cutlery, bowls or serving dishes; that we already have enough nick-knacks and trinkets. I’m keeping the plate. We will offer the silver claret jug to my nephew, thus honouring the family tradition of our valuable possessions being passed down from the eldest son to the eldest son. My brother has never shown much interest in it, but I hope my nephew accepts it, finds a place for it in his home. And maybe, one day, he might be able to hand it on to the next generation.

The boxes and their contents are out in the garage, destined for local charity shops. It was a good afternoon’s work, with none of the difficult emotions I had dreaded; I realise we should have done it sooner. This is how my writing feels at the moment. I’m certain ideas are there, packed away in my mind, waiting to be discovered.

Now, I just need to be brave and unwrap them.