Bags of memories

My Gran had a rusting can of Andrews in the far reaches of her bathroom cabinet. It had been there so long it had its own orbit rings of oxide, each a reminder of the 'do' or 'bad stomach' that necessitated its extraction. I hated it then, because it wasn't the tin I was used to seeing in the shops. It was an earlier incarnation. It wasn't modern. Callow, superficial youth! Of course I'd now saw my own head off to get my hands on it because I now know better.

Most homes are to some extent museums of the everyday, where the present coexists with the past. Each cupboard as instrumental in marking our progress through life as the pencil markings on the door jamb that charted our growth. The bulk-buy because Flash was on offer and two years and several design changes later you still have half of it left. The sweet wrapper accidentally pushed behind the cooker, or purposely used as wall filler (we've all done it). The former rediscovered laminated in fat years or decades later. The latter perhaps remaining for decades like a cat bricked up in a chimney (it was milk chocolate after all). And when we discover them again we're transported, sans Tardis, back to events, happenings and people. Smells, textures and emotions. They're the closest thing we have to time travel.

Last autumn I moved house and on removing kitchen drawers for cleaning etc I found a handful of bags, all caked in dust, and all had been sitting there for over 40 years. 

And people ask 'what remains to be discovered?' 

Everything.

I thought you'd like to see them.