I Am A Magnet....

...I collect. What? Well, anything, really; not from a conscious, rational decision, but a sort of 'creeping-up-behind-me-accumulation-of-stuff'' effect. It all depends on what I've been busy doing over the past few days, or weeks, or let's face it, months.

At the heart of this colourful still life is a clip top storage box, designed to accommodate exactly the kind of small items any craft addict will understand. But then, the lid of this handy box turns into a shelf and in next to no time, certain items take root and the whole assemblage begins to acquire the appearance of a Still Life arrangement for Budding Artists. Note the capital letters, which imbue this statement with gravitas.

Now the 'stuff'' becomes merely an interplay of form and colour, something to be appreciated in its own right, and my sense of propriety and tidiness flies out the window. It has its own persona, this group of items, with a story ready to sprout from each one.

A box of rubber bands I bought while I was still at work, which dates them as being at least five years old, were recently brought into play when I needed to bundle something up - I forget what (!) - but their bright blue carton goes so well with the blue clip on the box, and contrasts delightfully with the  green, Scotch Magic Tape container in the foreground...

Then there's an added visual zing from the pink and turquoise pair of compasses, attached to a sad, red and black pencil which has seen better days.  It echoes the scarlet head of the bird who's lost his tweet and, at the top of the picture, the ribbon badge, unraveled, which was once the emblem of some charity campaign.

There's a delicate, wooden filigree  bookmark which came all the way from China - a gift from a workmate - and it's silken cord adds its rich gold tone to the acid yellow of the bird's underbelly. He was a Christmas present from a neighbour, who knew well my sense of fun. For several years, the slightest movement would start up a tweeting song from this warbler, but now his battery has expired, and there's no way to replace it.

So to the casual observer this may be a heap of detritus, but to me, it's a living story, still being written today, for the box of pins, there amongst the heap, will aid me in a dressmaking enterprise this very afternoon!