| Do you brace as though for traumatic impact when your male partner buys you jewellery? I am one of those harpies, wielding scathing judgement like an emasculating scythe. But it's hardly an autogenic condition now, is it? The taste-based selection of highly personal items is just one of those fields of specific masculine incompetence that chafe me like underwear with nasty lace. It is what it is.  |  |
After vacillating over crap photos of this ring on an auction site a year ago I decided not to battle hipsters into three figures and had resolved, rather bitterly, to let it go, telling myself I didn't really like it anyway. On coming back from a walk the Lovely R announced he'd won it for me, smiling fit to burst. But do we ever want anything less than just after we've convinced ourselves that some other d-bag's going to outbid us for it? So I was sort of mad at him for spending the money and rolled my eyes and stomped away. The thing turned up about 24 hours later and I was forced to admit he'd picked a winner. It's well-marked and I think we did look up the maker, but I forget who it was now.
  | I love amber. This cube of Cretaceous goodness was chosen with care and glows like flakes of shellac encased in golden syrup; the flanged mount is secured with an internal post which is amazingly invisible except in dramatic backlight, so the square appears to perch inside the claws.  The tapered band is kewlness too, never catching on anything even though it sits so high on the finger. That's what good design is all about; the shit that works so well it's hardly ever noticed. We both love this piece. I'm glad I was overruled. |
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