Back in my childhood home, in the large wooden box that opened up like a concertina and sat underneath the Singer sewing machine, was a battered brass tin about the size of a pound of butter.

Inside was the button history of our family as it grew.

Literally hundreds of circular discs in every imaginable size and colour fighting for space; each one telling a story.

Many had been taken off clothes that could no longer be worn.

They were carefully removed before the item of clothing was cut into small pieces and used for cleaning.

Others came as spares, discreetly attached to the inner lining of a jacket or blouse.

Some were purchased from the impressive selection displayed across an entire wall in the town’s drapery shop, and sat patiently waiting for the knitter to finish the project they had started with such enthusiasm.

And although they each had their own distinct qualities, they all shared a common trait – they were the ideal companions for a rainy afternoon, in that time when children’s television aired for only a few hours each day.

Unless, of course, you wanted to watch the unchanging, smiling face of the girl playing noughts and crosses on the test card screen.

Treasure trove

With a messy mosaic of buttons splashed across the table, you could make the rain go away, in your mind at least, as you played tiddly winks.

Then there was the building of precarious towers, holding your breath as they climbed higher and higher, only to come crashing down. A simple spool of cotton made it possible to create bracelets and necklaces too.

The only limitation was your imagination.

Having the pleasure of a small boy for company one afternoon recently and the weather putting the garden out of bounds; we sat down on the kitchen floor and took out the box that holds my buttons.

His eyes widened with delight as he peered into the treasure trove.

Sticking his hand in, letting them run through his fingers before throwing them up into the air, where they landed like a broken rainbow.

We gathered them together, settling down to the serious business of making a spaceship, which turned into a car complete with a round-faced driver sitting at an equally round steering wheel.

When the text came telling me it was time for him to go home, we started to put them back in their box. Laughing as they rolled away from us, chasing them as they tried to hide behind the sofa.

His mum was hardly in the door when he unfurled his little hand, proudly revealing the buttons he had held on to, the precious ones.

“Oh,” she said, marvelling at the treasures nestling in his palm, “what are those?”

“Those,” I said, as he smiled up at me, “can be anything you want them to be.”