Dear reader...

R

ECENTLY, I DECIDED to renovate a piece of furniture. I often turn my hand to new crafts, enjoying mastering a tricky pattern or new technique. However, these are mostly on a small scale and can be remade or unravelled if they do not work out: a big item is a bit more daunting.

It was my heart, rather than my head, that led me to this project. Years ago, my grandfather had a bureau: a writing desk, with a fold-down front, which I thought was magical. I would put my hands in the two cups on the front and lower the writing leaf, which moved smoothly into place, thanks to a long, golden piano hinge. Inside was a secret world: little drawers, with polished black handles, containing squat glass bottles of ink and sheets of gummy stamps. Shelves and partitions were stuffed with pastel-coloured writing paper and letters, received and carefully filed. I would wonder at the writers of the letters and was fascinated by the stamps; some from far away countries: tiny, perforated works of art. Pulling up a stool, I would play at writing my own letters, filing them carefully with the others.

Now I have a bureau of my own, I imagine the person who used it before me, sitting like me at the fold-down desk, their story told in the scratches, dents and ink blotches they left behind. That is when I realise that sanding it down or applying a fresh coat of varnish or paint is not what is needed here. I will simply clean and polish it, and fill it with my own things so, like them, I can tell my story and leave a few marks of my own.