I realised this morning, just how stoic this messy table is. Damaged (broken in two) by a bombing raid in Liverpool during World War II, it has since been repaired and continues offering a temporary place for all sorts of stuff.

Not just my stuff either.

This stuff belongs to I. She and her brother came to stay for two very short days recently, and indulged in her all time favourite activity - beachcombing, but her mother won't let I keep her found treasures in her own room at home.

If there was a Ministry of Unfairness, I's mother would be in charge of it.

The table, whilst having it's limits, will keep I's stuff for as long as it needs to.