A spoon for memories

Before setting off on an ultimate circumnavigation of the memory of his first and only love, Captain Frank Stanley pedantically double-checked the contents of his luggage. He was not bothered about the instruments for navigating stormy waters, nor about the carefully kept notes from prior voyages with their warnings of dangerous shallows or unfriendly tribes, and even less about the state of clothing, headgear, pistols, and gunpowder. Before ordering the anchor heaved up, he needed to cross check at least six times that the spoon for memories, wrapped in dark green velvet, lay at the bottom of the chest: the sole thing he possessed that Arabella Dijon had left of herself (not counting the sound of hopeless love), she being a delightful saint with a harbour-town tongue and an impeccable faith in random love affairs.