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This year, I celebrated the New Year by doing something totally unexpected. It was a gesture so empowering and so completely out of character that I feel a swell of pride just thinking about it.
No, I didn’t go bungee jumping, hot air ballooning or rock climbing. I didn’t go gorilla spotting in Africa or deep-sea diving in the Seychelles. But what I did was - for me - equally outlandish and every bit as exhilarating.
I bought myself a piece of jewellery. Not any old piece of jewellery. I bought myself a ring. A stonking great green quartz which now flashes on the third finger of my left hand.
It’s the first time I’ve ever bought something to put on any finger — let alone ‘that’ finger, the one reserved for wedding rings. And it was only as I slipped the ring on in the jewellery department of Liberty in London that I realised the full significance of what I was doing.
I was celebrating a brand new year - and a brand new me. And now every time I look at the huge rock sparkling on my finger I get a surge of excitement.
I have always adored jewellery - and rings in particular. But, like most women, I was conditioned to believe that the one item of jewellery a woman never buys herself is a ring.
In fact, every ring I have worn over the years has been bought for me by a man. And every one has meant something very special - at the time.
When I got engaged to my first husband in 1985, we had so little money we scoured second-hand shops.
The ring I chose was an art deco design - a teeny emerald nestling between two diamond chips. It cost £82. Cheap and unflashy, maybe, but it sealed the biggest commitment of my life.
Five years later, we were on our honeymoon in India and he bought me the most exquisite sapphire ring. Flashing off my new status as a married woman, it heralded the start of a thrilling future.
But, although I loved wearing it, I kept a soft spot for that tiny little engagement ring which had begun the whole story.
When our first daughter, Ellen, was born in August 1991, my husband did a victory run around the labour room and then delved into his pocket to find the ring he had bought me to celebrate - a delicately carved Victorian one mounted with five diamonds. Even the midwife went misty-eyed.
In the months that followed, as I staggered bleary-eyed from our bed to feed her, I’d sometimes slip on the ring, look at those diamonds - worth a cool £900 - and feel a surge of utter contentment. A husband, a daughter, a diamond ring. What more could any woman want?
When Elise was born, 17 months later, my husband marked the event with a ruby ring.
I’d look at my rings — one on each hand — and imagine the moment, long in the future, when I’d hand them down. One for each of my beautiful daughters.
But it wasn’t to be. My marriage was already buckling — not helped by the pressure of two children born in such quick succession.
And that’s when I discovered the sad truth. When love dies, jewellery instantly loses its sparkle. I didn’t want to wear them. I didn’t want to look at them. They were reminders of all the dashed hopes and empty dreams.
It’s a dilemma facing most women who divorce. Some choose to carry on wearing their rings — particularly if they have young children, because they don’t want the outside world to know they are no longer part of a happy couple and family.
But not me. I didn’t even want them in the house. I auctioned them all for a fraction of their worth.
One friend got great pleasure putting her engagement ring on eBay. Getting a good price was the last thing on her mind. Just as well, since she advertised it with the ‘ringing’ endorsement: ‘Might suit vile love rat.’
I didn’t get any joy from selling my rings: in fact, it took me weeks to cash the cheques. And when I finally did, I felt physically sick.
But did that stop me still lusting after jewellery? Not a bit of it. I was mesmerised by other women’s engagement and eternity rings. My ringless fingers were a constant reminder of my broken marriage.
When I fell in love with my second husband, Richard, I was giddy with joy when he presented me with a diamond, gipsy-style ring to mark the anniversary of our first date. He whisked it out of his pocket at our favourite restaurant. I was so stunned, I burst into noisy tears.
When we got engaged a few months later, Richard suggested buying an engagement ring. But I loved that unassuming little ring so much, I refused. Like first love, it had meant so much I couldn’t bear to reject it now.
However, as the years passed, I did begin to covet something slightly more substantial. I’d stand outside jeweller’s windows, ogling eternity rings.
But I did it secretly. Richard had quit his well-paid job as a ship broker in the City soon after we married. His new job as a gardener paid barely enough to keep him in winter socks, let alone me in diamonds. Buying my own jewels would have seemed like the final insult.
And then came our tenth wedding anniversary — the perfect occasion for an eternity ring.
I tried not to feel sad when, instead, Richard presented me with a bunch of sunflowers.
But it was a clarion call that all wasn’t well. And sure enough, our marriage ended 11 months later, in 2008.
And, as I took that very first little diamond ring Richard had given me to my local Oxfam shop, I was, once again, gripped by sadness.
Of course, there have been moments when I’ve regretted disposing of my jewels so dramatically. Even though I couldn’t bear to wear them myself, I could have passed them down to my daughters.
But to me they were so tainted, I feared they would bring ill luck.
Then, just after Christmas, I was shopping with my daughters for an 18th birthday present. Elise wanted something substantial; a ring.
Watching my gorgeous daughter try on jewellery, I realised that rings can tell a happy story. The love between a mother and a daughter: a love that lasts for ever.
As we browsed the counter of designer Dinny Hall, something large and sparkly caught my eye.
Egged on by my girls, I slipped it on my wedding finger — the only one it would fit on. It looked so right.
And I realised why. My ring symbolises the start of a new independent life, circled by those I love.
No, I didn’t go bungee jumping, hot air ballooning or rock climbing. I didn’t go gorilla spotting in Africa or deep-sea diving in the Seychelles. But what I did was - for me - equally outlandish and every bit as exhilarating.
I bought myself a piece of jewellery. Not any old piece of jewellery. I bought myself a ring. A stonking great green quartz which now flashes on the third finger of my left hand.
It’s the first time I’ve ever bought something to put on any finger — let alone ‘that’ finger, the one reserved for wedding rings. And it was only as I slipped the ring on in the jewellery department of Liberty in London that I realised the full significance of what I was doing.
I was celebrating a brand new year - and a brand new me. And now every time I look at the huge rock sparkling on my finger I get a surge of excitement.
I have always adored jewellery - and rings in particular. But, like most women, I was conditioned to believe that the one item of jewellery a woman never buys herself is a ring.
In fact, every ring I have worn over the years has been bought for me by a man. And every one has meant something very special - at the time.
When I got engaged to my first husband in 1985, we had so little money we scoured second-hand shops.
The ring I chose was an art deco design - a teeny emerald nestling between two diamond chips. It cost £82. Cheap and unflashy, maybe, but it sealed the biggest commitment of my life.
Five years later, we were on our honeymoon in India and he bought me the most exquisite sapphire ring. Flashing off my new status as a married woman, it heralded the start of a thrilling future.
But, although I loved wearing it, I kept a soft spot for that tiny little engagement ring which had begun the whole story.
When our first daughter, Ellen, was born in August 1991, my husband did a victory run around the labour room and then delved into his pocket to find the ring he had bought me to celebrate - a delicately carved Victorian one mounted with five diamonds. Even the midwife went misty-eyed.
In the months that followed, as I staggered bleary-eyed from our bed to feed her, I’d sometimes slip on the ring, look at those diamonds - worth a cool £900 - and feel a surge of utter contentment. A husband, a daughter, a diamond ring. What more could any woman want?
When Elise was born, 17 months later, my husband marked the event with a ruby ring.
I’d look at my rings — one on each hand — and imagine the moment, long in the future, when I’d hand them down. One for each of my beautiful daughters.
But it wasn’t to be. My marriage was already buckling — not helped by the pressure of two children born in such quick succession.
And that’s when I discovered the sad truth. When love dies, jewellery instantly loses its sparkle. I didn’t want to wear them. I didn’t want to look at them. They were reminders of all the dashed hopes and empty dreams.
It’s a dilemma facing most women who divorce. Some choose to carry on wearing their rings — particularly if they have young children, because they don’t want the outside world to know they are no longer part of a happy couple and family.
But not me. I didn’t even want them in the house. I auctioned them all for a fraction of their worth.
One friend got great pleasure putting her engagement ring on eBay. Getting a good price was the last thing on her mind. Just as well, since she advertised it with the ‘ringing’ endorsement: ‘Might suit vile love rat.’
I didn’t get any joy from selling my rings: in fact, it took me weeks to cash the cheques. And when I finally did, I felt physically sick.
But did that stop me still lusting after jewellery? Not a bit of it. I was mesmerised by other women’s engagement and eternity rings. My ringless fingers were a constant reminder of my broken marriage.
When I fell in love with my second husband, Richard, I was giddy with joy when he presented me with a diamond, gipsy-style ring to mark the anniversary of our first date. He whisked it out of his pocket at our favourite restaurant. I was so stunned, I burst into noisy tears.
When we got engaged a few months later, Richard suggested buying an engagement ring. But I loved that unassuming little ring so much, I refused. Like first love, it had meant so much I couldn’t bear to reject it now.
However, as the years passed, I did begin to covet something slightly more substantial. I’d stand outside jeweller’s windows, ogling eternity rings.
But I did it secretly. Richard had quit his well-paid job as a ship broker in the City soon after we married. His new job as a gardener paid barely enough to keep him in winter socks, let alone me in diamonds. Buying my own jewels would have seemed like the final insult.
And then came our tenth wedding anniversary — the perfect occasion for an eternity ring.
I tried not to feel sad when, instead, Richard presented me with a bunch of sunflowers.
But it was a clarion call that all wasn’t well. And sure enough, our marriage ended 11 months later, in 2008.
And, as I took that very first little diamond ring Richard had given me to my local Oxfam shop, I was, once again, gripped by sadness.
Of course, there have been moments when I’ve regretted disposing of my jewels so dramatically. Even though I couldn’t bear to wear them myself, I could have passed them down to my daughters.
But to me they were so tainted, I feared they would bring ill luck.
Then, just after Christmas, I was shopping with my daughters for an 18th birthday present. Elise wanted something substantial; a ring.
Watching my gorgeous daughter try on jewellery, I realised that rings can tell a happy story. The love between a mother and a daughter: a love that lasts for ever.
As we browsed the counter of designer Dinny Hall, something large and sparkly caught my eye.
Egged on by my girls, I slipped it on my wedding finger — the only one it would fit on. It looked so right.
And I realised why. My ring symbolises the start of a new independent life, circled by those I love.
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