The whole world in my pocket

What has it got in its pocketses?

There is no more terrifying phrase than Gollum’s. Only a monster would ask it: what lies in our pockets, so close to our skin, should be private. I sensed this when I was, arguably, young, whenever my well-meaning father induced writhing terror by reading aloud JRRRRR Tolkien’s trademark red-flag-waving boundary-transcending question. And I know it now that I am, technically, a grown-up. The last thing I want to do is reveal to the uncaring world the contents of my pocket, by which I mean my soul.

Last week, after a fiction masterclass, I was asked about the classic creative-writing exercise: “Describe the contents of your character’s pockets.” Please, I said: don’t. Tell me everything in your, or your protagonist’s, bedside table, desk-drawer, washbag. I want the ointments and love notes in lurid detail. But pockets are different. You may keep ragged tissues and VAT receipts in yours but, for some of us, more enlightened, they are a repository for all that is wholesome and beautiful on this earth. They are a path to peace, apart from the light jingling-sound. Only a weirdo would use them for rubbish.

Take today: an ordinary writing day at the library, a couple of miles from home. Apart from the light chafing of my thigh-area, there is no evidence that I’m smuggling: a) bark-scraps, b) one bud, c) one leaf, d) one shell, e) one pebble, and f) one rosemary sprig.

No, they’re not materials for a photogenic Instagram montage. They aren’t gifts for passing children. Back off. These are for me.

Life is terrifying, even in the privilege and safety of the reading-room; we need all the help we can get. Like an enterprising hermit crab, I gather around myself the most interesting and stimulating and, therefore, soothing items I can find. Touch this curl of silver-birch bark, the papery lichenous grey protecting the secret oval lenticels, the moon-white suede beneath. It reminds me of my grandparents, of childhood, of Tolstoy. Also, it’s fun to peel. This beech-leaf is caramel-coloured, symmetrically veined. Look at the silken fur of this magnolia-bud, like a portable puppy-ear. The shell? Thanks for asking, it’s from Australia’s Great Ocean Road, both a reminder of my newfound love for Oz and inherently lovely, a fingernail-sized eight-pronged star. The rosemary is an all-purpose pepper-up, for nibbling or sniffing. The pebble, flint, has a perfect thumb-shaped curve at its base. Stop laughing. It’s for emergencies.

It’s winter, so my pockets – and the inside of the washing-machine – are, today, relatively empty. In autumn, they’re bulging with conkers, acorns, velvety beech-nut shells. Post-allotment, it’s soil, string, plant-labels, bindweed-tendrils, clay pipes and tomato seeds. But the real joy, and threat to white goods, is when I’m amongst gravel. Then I cannot, will not, stop. My friends know not to wait for me while they go inside. I’ll be bent double, transfixed by their interesting drive. Like a dim dog, or peculiar toddler, if they’d only plop me down in the middle of the gravel I’d be happy for hours. Gravel the size of unshelled mixed nuts is my favourite: nuggets of translucent quartz, smooth discs of limestone, mildly crystalline possible meteorite-shards. My parents’ mysteriously bare parking-spot contains belemnite-sections, devil’s toenails and other fragments of minor fossils, of nugatory value except to me.

What’s the point of smooth golden beaches? Or, indeed, sea views? On mountains I forget the vista, because I’m too busy collecting. What if I looked up, and missed the most beautiful pebble of them all? Or cast one aside and regretted it for life?Shingle is the dream, because of the range of colours and textures, hag-stone punctures, crinkles, ridges, chevrons and curls, but a gravelled flower-bed, even a simple path, contain worlds.

I never remember whence they came; that isn’t the point. And I try not to be greedy. Whoever is walking with, or near, me can count on a share; some even wait until I’ve looked away to chuck them back. This is the problem with genius; one is generally misunderstood. My companions often have a strangely similar facial expression; it looks like pity, although I’m sure that’s just the light.

But, very occasionally, I discover treasure: a fellow enthusiast. It happened in the new year, when, crossing a Pembrokeshire beach with the ceramicist Emma Flynn. I spotted a beauty: reddish, UFO-shaped; then another, like a lightly crushed liquorice all-sort. Within minutes we could barely move for riches. Then she said the most exciting words I’ve ever heard: “Want to see an abandoned slate quarry?”

I’m meeting a friend for lunch today: newish, but a nature-lover. I’ll try her on the emergency pebble, see if she gets it. Then, if she’s lucky, I’ll empty my pockets.