What a mysterious carry-on in St Tropez last week, when Jenson Button and his wife Jessica Michibata were apparently gassed and robbed in their villa, and woke up feeling ghastly to find Jessica’s £250,000 engagement ring missing. Was the robber gang Russian? How did they get the huge container of gas up the drive and administer it? Or did the Buttons just have a frightful hangover?
Who knows, but there’s another much more baffling mystery here: why have a £250,000 ring in the first place? It’s just asking for trouble. I inherited my mother’s diamond ring, which is titchy and worth peanuts compared to Jessica’s, but I still wouldn’t dare wear it outdoors. What if I lost it? And, around here, the odds are that someone would wrench it from my finger, or simply chop my finger off. I don’t even dare have it in the house, in case burglars sniff it out, so it’s hidden away in the bank, and one day, when I’m old and broke, I can perhaps use it to keep myself in gruel for years.
My mother used to wear it bravely, but, as she grew older and sicker, the ring became more of a burden, causing nothing but worry. Every time she was carted off to hospital, her desperate parting words would be: “Take my ring.” She was sure that, if it was left on her finger, it would be nicked while she was asleep, drugged or out cold on the operating table, and gone by the time I reached her deathbed.
So, I would take it and hide it until she came home – a terrifying responsibility. But, even when my mother was young and healthy, the ring caused problems. One day, when my Auntie Milly had just remarried, she asked to look at it. “Can I see your ring, Clarice?” My mother held up her hand. Milly held up her own, and her new engagement ring, and smiled dreamily.
“Mine is bigger!” said she, enraging my mother. Good job Milly didn’t stand next to Jessica.
