Keyrings.

I was bestowed a souvenir whilst at work this day.

A keyring.

I'm never sure what they symbolise; was it 3 for 10Euro (optimistic), or is it just a nice gesture. I'll plump for the latter.

A Parisian keyring. Not exactly the same ring to it as describing ones style as Parisian. Never the less, it unearthed a memory of my beloved Aunt Bernadette.

As a child I was (& still am) inquisitive (nosey). I like to push personal boundaries, even if it ruffles feathers. If I could cast my eye over a blurb for those who I meet, it'd be a dream realised.

Still, back to the point, my Aunt is a hoarder; from jigsaws to junk jewellery, regardless of whether she bought it in 1978, it no longer works, or hasn't fit her this side of the millenium - she can't let go.

Under a rouse of needing the bathroom, I slipped into her lair & set about foraging. Forcing open a disused wardrobe I was showered with metal, plastic, and wood. A keyring kingdom.

I counted 84 that day. Bar 7 from the US, the rest were Europe based. Suggesting perhaps not a seasoned traveller. Yet receiving the souvenir this morning altered my perception of Bernadettes bizarre batch immediately; keyrings are perhaps missold as items to alert one to ones house keys alone. They infer a memory, whether it be yours or not. Much like a photo album (of which Bern has over 150) these keyrings made up a patchwork of her experiences, littered with the affectionate giving of symbols of others treasured memories.

I could think of worse things to bring back from holiday ...

Found on Woosk