In addition to all the materialistic stuff I posted last week
there are a few other things that I would refuse to part with:

My photos from last year; as much as I've bitched about what a pain in the arse living in Pervland was, and how much Stalker Girl pissed me off in Switzerland before that, I have some incredible photos of amazing places and people that, as they live all over the world, I may never see again.

I also have a traditional Greek keyring with a butterfly on it that my roommate gave me when she left Italy, a Chinese New Year card from a friend in Beijing, a 'good luck in your finals' card from my parents (thanks parents, will need it), the empty bottle of cheap Tesco Merlot from the night I met Mr Maladicta which I now use as a vase for my cherry blossom fairy lights, my nan's engagement ring which lives in my jewellery box at my parents' (mainly because if I lost it, my dad would kill me), the leaflet from the memorial service for my grandad I wasn't able to attend, plus a little cuddly pig with "This piggy loves you" on it I got him when I as very small (it was the only thing of his I desperately wanted to keep), a pendant with a Chinese dragon on that technically belongs to Mr Maladicta but he never wears it, a string of rainbow fuzzy felt beads (each one is about the diameter of a 2p coin) that I bought from a contrada market in Siena, a Venetian glass heart pendant I bought in Rome, the huge PACE flag I use as a blind that I also bought in Siena, my Université de Lausanne ID card, the Rilo Kiley single bought for my last birthday by Jamesthegill and his missus, my collection of Paris metro tickets (no, really), a little wooden Buddha that used to belong to my mum (I stroke him in times of stress) and, while he's not a possession as such, Mr Maladicta.

My nan does not feel the same way about my grandad's stuff: the things that couldn't be sent to the charity shop or farmed out to the rest of the family were piled in the back garden and burned. I like to think they were accompanied by a tiny Irish lady with snow-white hair waving a clothes prop and doing some kind of war-dance. They really didn't get on.

EDIT: I have just realised that I have lost my treasured photo of my first Latin master, the legendary Brother Stevens (he wasn't actually a monk, he just looked like one) and his photo was on my wall to remind me to Read The Fucking Question and to check things thoroughly which, as a confirmed slacker, I sometimes forget to do.
( Maladicta, Mon 12 May 2008, 15:01, Reply)