When I was a little girl, I wanted to be an archaeologist, digging away for hidden treasure. It wasn’t really the treasure, which interested me. It could have been a dusty bowl, a limb intact, a head undone, a string of beads, that dancing girl, anything. So long as it was old. So old that the mud and clay would have leeched out all the colour from it. It would be the colour of nothing, and yet it would be beautiful and I would love it for its subtle beauty. It would be hidden deep down, somewhere under the earth, in a corner that all hands and minds had forgotten. In a dry field lying fallow. Or under a snow covered mountain which didn’t exist before. (Ice ages creep up suddenly, you see). Or it would be sleeping below a rhododendron covered avenue, waking quietly to the dull plodding of a million feet every morning. Living out its boring life, listening to the voices of the million people walking by, their exciting lives bared in the highs and lows of loud conversation. Yes, it would be sitting there quietly, waiting for me to come by one day. Then I would find it. And it would be mine.