My sweet wife recently told me that she found polishing the silver to be rather relaxing... that it reminded her of her youth. I pointed out that it wasn't the memories of youth but rather the aristocratic blood pulsing through her veins that was the root.
It's too bad that I tricked her into marrying me because I am very far from an aristocrat falling closer to the vagrant caste or perhaps the hunter/gatherer/nomadic castes.
I should clarify here that she is a quite friendly and kind and generous Brahminesque nomadically inclined closeted aristocrat... but an aristocrat never the less.
And here is why I know such unsearchable things.
We've recently received some silverware. A set of silver. Knives, forks, spoons, made of silver. Whatever you call that grouping of items that is made of silver and must be polished and must never be used by humans and must be handled with felt gloves and has a special mahogany box built by fairly paid artisans that drink organic whole milk.
So we have in our possession this collection of fineness. These are items handed down by Grandma so that we might hand them down to our grandchildren and so on.
She finds polishing the silver a kind of restful activity. She achieves the sort of mellow calmness that others find during meditation or prayer. Now you may try to argue that polishing the silver is not the activity of the aristocracy but I disagree. It isn't the action but the handling that is the key. It is the weight and smell and texture that are the thing.
She stands a bit taller.
She becomes more punctual.
She sips tea with more eloquence.
She exudes authority.
She is irresistibly sophisticated.
And all from just a little silver.
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