I remember my dad taking me to a junk shop when I was a kid. It was stuffed to the rafters; beaten up leather chairs, steamer trunks plastered in colourful shipping labels. Shelves groaning under their burden of comically stacked crockery. I was awestruck!

While my dad was busy bartering with the shop owner, I slipped away into the dimly lit depths and explored, squeezing between precariously piled boxes as high as skyscrapers. Enticed further by youthful curiosity and guided by shafts of daylight streaming through the grubby windows, I continued deeper, stopping briefly to dive into a tea chest stuffed with furry hats, scarves silky to the touch, long gloves that came all the way up to my armpits. What was this magical place?

A painted wooden galleon caught my eye; perched high on a shelf, half-hidden under a blanket of dust, sails tattered and torn, rigging in disrepair. I stood transfixed and wondered how that marvel could simply be abandoned like that, forgotten and unwanted. At that moment, I was swept away, I imagined taking it home, dusting it down and fixing it up like new. Ready for fresh adventures on the high seas. And I would be captain!

All too soon I was summoned back to reality by my father, I took a long last gaze at that piece of nautical treasure before scurrying back through the labyrinth of mahogany monoliths to the safety of dry land. I promised myself I'd be back one day to rescue it.