Jane Downing


It was exquisite. She ran her finger across the cool eggshell china, then carefully, very carefully, and gently, raised it by the delicate pink and perfectly rounded handle. It was as light as she had expected, and the green lettering on its underside spelt the familiar 'Shelley'. Even from the doorway of the jumbled shop its distinctive beauty had shone- the subtle pinks and greys meeting in wondrous flowers on the pristine whiteness drew her closer with the desire to touch, to caress, to hold. Why did someone part with this treasure, what history did it hold, what moments had it witnessed, to whose lips had it delivered refreshing hot tea?



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