In the neurodivergent community, a ‘glimmer’ is a spark of brain pleasure. It could be triggered by something you know you love, so you can do it on purpose (like mudlarking for me) or it can be all-of-a-sudden, out in the world.

A good glimmer for me is a ghost sign sighting. Ghost signs are the faint whispers of businesses past, usually painted high up on the sides of brick buildings.

There’s a couple in my village, and a good few in Newport. I mention it today because Historic England have just launched a campaign to get people to add ghost signs to a map so they have a database of where they are. I’ve already submitted, obv.

Whenever I’m in a new town, I’m looking up. I’m scouring the upper storeys for Victorian tile, bottles in the mortar of gables,* mansard roofs. When we lift our eyes beyond what’s right in front of us, we see precious treasures from the times before.

I don’t know how I don’t bump into things more, actually, because when I’m anywhere rural, I’m looking down. Searching for pottery and glass, scanning the roots of hedgerows for bottles.

I’m a born hunter-gatherer. Even in my inside life: researching anything, trawling for vintage clothes, gathering, gathering, gathering.

* Recent glimmer: our carpenter told me that roofs used to be finished with a bottle set into the mortar over the wooden bargeboards. Ours has one, and I’ll be replacing it with my own choice of bottle when the new mortar goes in. A-MAZING.