As a connoisseur—some would say a compulsive accumulator—of timber, I find myself surrounded by a positively operatic assortment of wooden odds and ends. One never knows when a particular sliver will prove indispensable, so wisdom dictates restraint from the waste bin. Or so I tell myself.

In fairness, I make periodic attempts at rationality, but there are moments when I survey the accumulated detritus of my good intentions and wonder, with some alarm, what on earth I imagined I would ever do with it all.

Years ago I worked for a company that distributed assistive devices for the disabled, and on one memorable occasion we acquired a bed—technically for children, though the term hardly does it justice. It was an immense contrivance of solid beech, engineered, it seemed, to restrain an entire colony of Norwegian mountain trolls. The slats, which in ordinary cribs run to about 10 millimeters, had here almost taken on the dimensions of structural lumber.

I duly dismantled this Troll Keep and laid the timbers by for future use.

And today, at long last, a purpose emerged for a few of those venerable timbers: a display stand for the necklaces I intend to present at the Christmas market. Nothing extravagant—merely a pair of dowels and the rails that once confined them—but even such humble components can, in the right moment, assume an air of destiny.

I trimmed the dowels to their appointed lengths upon my venerable miter board, which—though unassuming—continues to serve as the quiet arbiter of what is straight, true, and fit for civilized work.

I then set about removing the old finish with my Mirka sanding block, equipped with a foam pad that obligingly conforms to every curve and contour. For the task I employed Mirka’s Abranet abrasive—easily the finest sandpaper I have ever had the pleasure of using, and quite capable of persuading even the most recalcitrant surface to behave.

I then bored the holes for the dowels, creating the small connectors that would unite the various parts. A spiral auger bit makes exquisitely clean work of such things, provided one shows it a modicum of courtesy. I therefore pre-drilled a guide for the screw-tip—the ‘snail’—both to keep the bit obediently on course and to spare myself the full indignity of driving it, unassisted, into obstinate beech.

The moment the snail announced its arrival on the far side, I withdrew the bit and resumed the operation from the reverse. The result: not the slightest hint of tear-out, as though the wood had agreed, for once, to behave with perfect decorum.

I then set about planing off the blue paint, easing the edges, and giving every piece a thorough sanding. In the horizontal dowel I drilled a series of holes for the little pegs that will serve as necklace hooks. I neglected to document any of this, which is almost certainly a mercy; the proceedings were, truth be told, rather boring anyway.

On the next page, I shall attempt the assembly of the contraption.