Gentle Reader, I have long held that I would much rather receive a casket of rubies rather than an engagement band. I don’t believe in the diamond trade for a number of reasons – you can choose the artificially short supply, or that most of our traditions about diamonds only date to about the 1920’s, or, of course, there’s the horrific cruelty involved in procuring modern diamonds. No, a small chest of rubies is infinitely less expensive, arguably less cruel, and much more to my taste.
However, it’s highly unlikely that I shall ever marry again. If you’ve known me for any length of time, I’m sure you’ve heard me go on at length about the reasons why; there’s no need to go into them here. Suffice it to say that I mentioned offhandedly on Social Media that I was giving up on ever getting my rubies, left the matter there and thought no more about it.
One week later, I received a package. There was no note, just a return address indicating India. Inside, I found a lump of rough-grade red carborundum – nearly fifty carats. It was larger than a pigeon’s egg.
Over the next few weeks, more and more of these mysterious packages arrived – the rubies started piling up. Lab-created, rough-grade, a few really stellar stones – it didn’t matter. Rubies kept arriving, and I needed to figure out a place to keep them, fast.
I was terribly puzzled, at this point. Were the stones being sent by an unknown beau? A stalker? Were they completely incidental? What on Earth was going on?
My dear friend, Miss Goss, had had them sent. The theory was that I could wed myself and not be dependent on someone else for my future happiness, and that, Gentle Reader, was a gift well worth having.