I like going up to my son’s bedroom these days. Now he is adult, I don’t put off the evil moment, dreading opening the door, wondering what scene of mayhem I shall find. I no longer have to worry that I may tread on a spiteful piece of lego, or trip over the latest spaceship or meccano structure. I don’t take a deep breath before entering, in case the smell of sweaty socks has built up to an unendurable level.

Actually, I miss the days when his room contained models and maths books; when his bed was a messy jumble of bedclothes, dirty washing, books and toys. I miss having him around all the time. Although the wonders of Skype help to make him feel closer, there is no substitute for the real thing. Even after ten years, I miss his sense of the ridiculous, his dry observations, the hugs and encouragement and the chuckling as he chats online with his friends.

Obviously, having moved to Spain, his bedroom is not the same actual room with its high-level bed that he helped to make. The walls are not decorated as the inside of a space ship, and there is no space station painted on a midnight blue blind scattered with sprayed on stars. There are, however, various momentoes of his childhood, and on the chest of drawers some of his pottery and a collection of stones he has gathered and arranged to look like pac man.

Our cheerful patchwork tea cosy

The reason I enjoy going into his room though, is because it doubles up as my craft repository when he is not here. Boxes under the bed are home to my stash of patchwork and dressmaking fabrics. From time to time, I take them out to find suitable pieces for my latest project, and spend a happy half hour sorting through the various fabrics, enjoying the rich colours and patterns, getting nostalgic over the scraps from clothes made for the children, the remnants of silk from my wedding dress, other clothes made for myself, gifts for friends.

Copy of an antique sewing bag, made for a friend

On the shelf is my button jar.  I won the jar for guessing how many sweets it held at a school fȇte years ago. In it are buttons given to me by Auntie Flo. Florence Adelaide Harris was an old lady who used to entertain my siblings and me with stories of her nephew who emigrated to Australia and had two little boys, one of whom was called Rolf. I have buttons from the skirt I remember my mother wearing when I was a very small child. Tiny buttons remind me of the cardigans and jumpers I made for the children when they were little. Larger ones are what remains of favourite garments or spares from sets bought for various projects.

An empty tube that used to contain a bottle of Geoff’s favourite whisky now houses my collection of knitting needles. Among the metal ones are a few coloured bone and plastic ones, inherited from my mother and grandmother.

The toy box my dad made for us is home to wadding and stuffing, eyes for soft toys, sewing patterns, leftover wools and yarns from projects over the years, some of the yarn I spun from a Jacob’s fleece on my beautiful spinning wheel, and my lace making paraphernalia. The little blue pincushion attached to my lace pillow is edged, as per tradition, with the first piece of lace I ever made. In a box that once held baby wipes are the card and tools for making the prickings for all the patterns I have made, and in another are my bobbins. Each one is decorated with pretty beads, or spangles. The bobbins themselves are turned wood, different woods, different colours, some simply polished, some brightly painted. Even when they are not being used, they are a pleasure to hold, and many of the spangles were chosen carefully and have special significance. One of the bobbins has a tiny pewter owl and my daughter’s name spelled out in beads. Its partner has a glass frog and my son’s name. An oak bobbin, has an acorn from one of the Mildmay oaks near where we used to live, and leaf green beads.

Bobbin lacemaking – a delicate and absorbing craft

At the foot of the bed is my fishing tackle box, one of the first things I bought when I left home. It has served as my needlework box ever since, and holds lace and ribbons, pins, hook and eyes, patches for school trousers, name tags, nappy pins, canvas patches for the tent we took camping every year, embroidery threads and a French knitting dolly from when I was a child.

It’s never been near a worm!

All of these things are a source of nostalgic pleasure to me. The colours and textures, the associations and memories can have me totally absorbed and transported back to happy times and places. Most of them have no intrinsic value, and when I have no further use for them, they will mean very little to anybody else.

More recently, the bedroom has become home to a collection of tiny garments, knitted by a growing army of knitters in our area. The little jumpers and hats, knitted for the Fish & Chip baby appeal, all follow the same basic pattern, but are knitted in an almost endless variety of colours. For the most part, the outfits are kept in the chest of drawers, but as the collection grows, it overspills onto the bed, and piles up on top of the toy box.

These will soon be on their way to Africa

At any given time I also have one or two items waiting to be taken back to the UK when we next visit – a sparkly purple cardigan for my niece, a cabled jacket for dad, a cardigan for mum, a knitted clanger for my daughter.

Clanger, flying North for the winter

These items, sitting side by side with all my memories of past projects, give me a different sort of pleasure. In them I can see potential. I can see little African children kept warm and given a chance to survive their first few weeks of life. I can see loved ones knowing that I have made something for them with love and care, and I can imagine others being inspired to have a go, and in years to come, inspiring others with their own creations.