Faberge eggs and other luxuries

Today is the 166th birthday of Peter Carl Faberge, the Russian jeweller who became best known for his glamorous Faberge eggs. These ornate eggs were made using precious metals and gemstones and have spawned millions of copies ever since. Moreover, they have inspired designers to come up with their own versions.

These luxurious items are beautiful and precious and incredibly expensive. Some have been known to sell for millions of pounds.

My mother was a magpie for all things glittery and beautiful. I can remember her oo-ing and aah-ing over a Faberge egg we once saw in a museum. I was the typical moody teenager at the time, grumpy about being dragged round a museum by my father and dismissive of my mother's enthusiasm for the costume displays. Still, even I stopped to stare at the beautiful ornament. It was gorgeous and decadent, and quite useless. For all it's grandeur, once I'd got over the initial glamour it held over me, I had to admit that it was just another ornament to dust. To my mother though, it was a wondrous thing to behold, a magical possession that would drive away the greyness of everyday life.

My enthusiasm was and always has been for the treasures of books and words. I find great joy (and sometimes hardship) in writing. An imagined scene can shine as brightly as the most ornate and well polished Faberge egg. As that moody teenager, I would write and write and sleep then write. I cared little about what I wrote or who would see it. The process of creation and realisation onto paper was sufficient.

Nowadays, with less time on my hands and more deadlines, most of my writing has a purpose. I write blog articles to be posted on here. I write my work in progress with the aim to be published. I write plays to sell through my business. There is an intent behind my writing which sometimes steals some of the pleasure that I used to find in the machinery of creation.

Looking at the Faberge eggs featured online today, I realised something. Not everything has to have a practical purpose to be worthwhile. There are some items that are just there to be, well, there, to be enjoyed for their lack of intent and usefulness. It's okay to paint, dance, sing or write simply for joy, with no deadline or expectations.

Today, I think I may take some time out from my writing schedule and pen some words just for the sake of enjoying the flow. Tomorrow, I'll worry about deadlines and editing.

Faberge Building, London