Pockets are often an unappreciated means of travel to new – and old – territory. I have journeyed far and well through pocket offerings.

Not wishing to dwell there at length (the shudder factor will likely last a lifetime over the memory) I must mention how the screech I gave raised my voice to an unprecedented octave the day I thrust a hand into a son's jean's pocket and touched ………. Now I am going to let you imagine what could be encountered in a pocket that would elicit making a face every time I think of it. Oh, I'll tell you later, but have fun with the challenge. The laundry room was not large but I managed a lively "ooooh-ooooooh-oooooooh" dance with appropriate hand-shaking and nose-wrinkling.

Usually forays into pockets aren't so dramatic but more a nostalgia trip. Like finding a theatre ticket stub in the pocket of a dress making its seasonal appearance and being instantly transported back a year to an evening outdoor performance of a play, a quick entrance and exit rain shower releasing the scent of hot pavement, the sudden sound of a train in the distance that answered a line and made the audience laugh, the actors meeting the challenge in their disregard for this 'upstaging'.

Found money in pockets is always cheering. The crinkly kind especially. And there occurs the question of ethics if it is discovered in a garment more than one member of the family might have worn. "Oh, I'm sure it's mine," I've told myself, perhaps a little more emphasis on the "sure" than certainty requires.

Cryptic notes are amusing and annoying. Addresses I don't recognize and times and dates long forgotten. But the handwriting is mine. Names and phone numbers, also unfamiliar. I seem to have a habit of exchanging names and numbers with people chanced upon in a library or waiting in grocery lines or strolling streetscapes for important reasons like, oh say, if they ever come across a skein winder or decide to divide that exquisite clump of moor grass in their garden or if I ever remember which deli had that Caesar salad with polenta'ed croutons. It seems an arrogance of the memory of memory that I never add details to the name and number, just assume I won't forget the why's and wherefor's.

Habitues of thrift shops and garage sales know about finding things in pockets. Tissues (sometimes used ones!). Match books (which I have left lying around the house hoping to impress grownup kids when they visit). Buttons. Cryptic notes in someone else's handwriting. Shopping lists (fascinating to see what other people need to make a food list for). Jewellery. Keys. Cosmetics. Pens and pencils. Lottery tickets (ever hopeful!). Gloves. Photographs. Sand.

Pockets once yielded a ring I was sure I had lost and would never see again.

When I realized I could cut knitting needles down to a six-inch length, pockets then became a convenient way of carrying around small knitting projects. Sort of notebook needlework. And I'm working on a design for pockets outside of clothing to further this.

Okay. Here is what was in the pocket of the jeans of the son who shall remain nameless but had better call his first girl child after me. A grand collection of wet, slimy, stinky cigarette butts. Yech again!