This is my son's baby shawl, lovingly knitted by my 'auntie' Olwyn 38 years ago. He was brought home from hospital wrapped in its softness.
It has been stored, clearly without due care and attention, acid-free tissue paper, or even a scrap of common sense, inside a plastic bag in the old mahogany tallboy.
Something dreadful has happened to it over the years, and I feel awful.
There are holes; they could be repaired, I suppose.
But there are also mysterious stains. Little ones, that have not responded to careful washing.
And a complete disaster in the centre.
What happened? What would you do with it now? Be blunt. I feel guilty enough to accept harsh verdicts with meek humility. I know I am an idiot.