At some point in my teens, I adopted a large white opal ring of my grandmother’s and claimed it as my own. It is set on a pale gold band amid 12 delicate claws. Its depth is so impressive that people often comment on the way it gleams in the light.
Every time I wear it, I’m intrigued that my grandmother (who died long before I was born) had hands exactly the same size as mine. Embarrassingly, in the decades I’ve owned it, I’ve never cleaned it. I will be rectifying this, following the expert advice I was provided for this column: most jewellery is inherently fragile and needs to be properly cared for and cleaned often.
