At my eighth birthday party, my best friend gave me a beach towel.

Sitting on the gritty sandstone of a dry riverbed, with sunburnt kids in bathing suits crowding round, my small brow probably wrinkled with uncertainty upon receiving this strange, utilitarian item. It seemed like an odd gift to me.

The towel was vividly rainbow-coloured. I’d lay it out as protection from the tickly green grass of the front yard, and press myself into its velvety smooth surface. With my small fingers, I played with the edges where the shiny cotton threads in vivid colours formed a fringe, combing them perfectly straight and smooth.

I was deeply satisfied with its mine-ness – I owned this pretty thing, something unique to me. it wasn’t mine by proxy, because it belonged to my parents. And although my sister had one too, it wasn’t the same, it wasn’t as beautiful.

I looked and looked and looked at it, flooding my retinas with each colour. Primary colours entered, bright and garish, but woven against the other colours in the rainbow made combinations that were subtle and resonant. I rubbed my fingers and toes across the pebbly smooth band where the fibres didn’t stand up, and parted the dense softness where they did.

Thirty years later, there are very few gifts or items I remember with as much pleasure and fondness.