DESCRIPTION OF AN OBJECT

Roughly the size of an adolescent badger, it smells of newly-mown opals and has the texture of a peach-stone. It is cold to the touch, like a stethoscope on a bared chest on an icy St Petersburg morning. Stroke it and the tendrils contract rhythmically, shake it and you can hear the distant ocean roar deep inside. It’s old now, minted in the 'Winter of Discontent' of 1979, and beginning to lose its lustre, particularly around the cavernous mouth. The manufacturer’s emblem on the side is beginning to fade due to constant exposure to sunlight, and one of the handles remains attached by the barest of threads. A thick layer of dust lies along the top edge where no duster can reach. Many times I have considered replacing it with a new infra-red model, half the weight and twice as powerful, but when I see it coiled there in its striped pyjamas, I know its final days will be spent in my company.