How To Change Your Life

You don’t know anyone at the party, so you don’t want to go. You don’t like cottage cheese, so you haven’t eaten it in years. This is your choice, of course, but don’t kid yourself: it’s also the flinch. Your personality is not set in stone. You may think a morning coffee is the most enjoyable thing in the world, but it’s really just a habit. Thirty days without it, and you would be fine. You think you have a soul mate, but in fact you could have had any number of spouses. You would have evolved differently, but been just as happy.
You can change what you want about yourself at any time. You see yourself as someone who can’t write or play an instrument, who gives in to temptation or makes bad decisions, but that’s really not you. It’s not ingrained. It’s not your personality. Your personality is something else, something deeper than just preferences, and these details on the surface, you can change anytime you like.

If it is useful to do so, you must abandon your identity and start again. Sometimes, it’s the only way.

Set fire to your old self. It’s not needed here. It’s too busy shopping, gossiping about others, and watching days go by and asking why you haven’t gotten as far as you’d like. This old self will die and be forgotten by all but family, and replaced by someone who makes a difference.

Your new self is not like that. Your new self is the Great Chicago Fire—overwhelming, overpowering, and destroying everything that isn’t necessary.

You will never be entirely comfortable. This is the truth behind the champion – he is always fighting something. To do otherwise is to settle.

– Julien Smith, The Flinch

 I don’t know if this is a self-help book or what but I’m pretty sure I need to read it.

Growing Up On Drugs

I’ve already mentioned that I spend way too much time on Reddit, especially when hungover. I think that’s because my poor dehydrated brains needs an endless intake of information to distract itself from the distress signals coming from the liver. Also because although there is a big amount of shit content (comes with the territory), you do find some gems now and again.

Here is one of them, posted by Bilgerman:

I have a theory that as you grow up, you go through various states of intense intoxication.

Newborns are essentially bombed out on heroin. They just lie there staring at stuff and occasionally giggling, crying, or puking on themselves.

Toddlers are on ecstasy and acid. They run around, without much purpose in mind, touching things and making noise at inappropriate moments.

Then you become a drunk. The two in the video are a pretty good representation. You stagger about, not quite sure how to use your body, you slur words into semi-coherent sentences, and you still occasionally puke and pee yourself.

Tweens are basically potheads, sometimes actual potheads. They’re philosophical, they have more to say than their words will allow, and most of their “revelations” range from simple minded to completely incorrect.

The rest of your life is spent ingesting substances to revert back to these states as you try to live as a totally unprepared and completely inept adult.

How Spotify Made My Day

No comments needed:








Link to the exchange here.

Spotify profile here.


I’ve been very busy. Just since Monday I:

  • Stacked it down the steps at my mum’s house and developed fetching cuts and bruises all over my legs
  • Wrote my first Buzzfeed Post!
  • Spent 5 minutes straightening my hair before I realised I hadn’t plugged the GHD’s in
  • Made my friend A get drunk on red wine on a school night
  • Ran around the garden with a salt shaker killing slugs like a demented child
  • Resisted the urge to cry when my trains to and from work were cancelled in one day
  • Came up with five ideas for humorous Tumblr blogs
  • Spent an afternoon reading about slugs on Wikipedia. Did you know that weird hole they have on the side is for breathing? Gross.
  • Considered reactivating Facebook
  • Decided not to reactivate Facebook
  • Wished death on at least ten different people every day
  • Blew raspberries on the cat’s belly until he hid under the bed
  • Tried and failed to work out how to connect my TV to WiFi (mostly because I’m too lazy to look up the model number so I can find the manual on the Sony website)
  • Did an August Budget spreadsheet six times and came up with six different ‘spare money’ amounts every time
  • Made a list of hot sauces and BBQ rubs I’m going to buy when I get paid
  • Looked up how to cut wine bottles (to make into garden lanterns)
  • Read this article and felt a bit emotional about how much I love Aldi
  • Acquired a freakin’ beautiful vintage dressing table off Freegle
  • Got stuck dragging the dressing table halfway up the stairs
  • Avoided death from starvation by kicking the dressing table until it fell back down the stairs, miraculously intact
  • Found reasons to avoid removing chipped nail polish. Such as: reading GFY, blowing raspberries on the cat’s stomach until he hides under the bed, pondering if I’m too old to buy a Moomin soft toy (no)

So you can see why I haven’t had time to post. But I will. Eventually. Once I can think of a whimsical DIY project that would earn you mad props on Pinterest (oh did I mention I have a Pinterest now too?)

I hope that all the super subtle self-promotion worked and my site stats will go up now kthx.

Cute Thing Of The Week


This week’s prize for being the cutest thing ever goes to the red panda because look at its adorable little face and tell me your heart hasn’t melted.

Red pandas (who are also called red cat-bears) are native to China and the Himalayas. They’re slightly bigger than a domestic cat and eat pretty much everything from bamboo to birds. But mostly bamboo.

Source: Wikipedia

Source: Wikipedia

They clean themselves like a cat would (licking their front paws and rubbing themselves) and patrol their territories to mark them with urine because they’re not only solitary but also quite territorial. But who cares about that because look how cute they are!!

The Ultimate Spaghetti Bolognese

I fucking love food, I always get depressed when I meet someone who admits that the extent of their culinary skills is sticking a frozen chicken kiev in the oven. We’re lucky enough to live in a part of the world where most ingredients are readily available; ignorance is not an excuse either – forget cooking classes, the best way to learn to cook is to know the basics and adapt them to your own personal taste.

At the very least, everyone should know how to make spaghetti bolognese from scratch and I mean the bastardized English version, not the authentic Italian one (which includes bacon, cream and weirdly, celery among other things). The tomato sauce is the easiest and most versatile thing ever (it seriously goes with everything) and the only other thing you need is minced beef and the actual spaghetti.

So, this is the recipe for killer spaghetti bolognese. Serves 2.



For the sauce: 

  • Tin of chopped tomatoes (or passata if you feel like being fancy)
  • An onion
  • 2-4 cloves of garlic (depending on how much you like garlic)
  • Smoked paprika
  • Mixed herbs
  • Tomato puree (optional, and not if you’re using passata)

For everything else: 

  • 400g minced beef
  • Chorizo – only the best sausage EVER
  • Olive oil
  • Spaghetti
  • Parmesan
  • Frying pan
  • 2 saucepans
  • Wine/prosecco/vodka/[insert booze here] to make the cooking process more fun




Pour some olive oil into the frying pan (just enough to make a tiny puddle in the middle). Pre-heat the pan. Chuck the mince in and brown on a medium heat. You might need to drain the mince, especially if you’re using the relatively cheap stuff. By the time you mix the mince with the sauce, there shouldn’t be any liquid in the frying pan!


While the mince is browning, drain the chopped tomatoes and empty into a saucepan. Or open the packet of passata and pour that in if you’re being fancy. Add a handful of herbs and smoked paprika to taste (start off with two teaspoons if you’re a recent paprika convert). Mix it all up. Don’t turn the heat on yet. Pour the wine.


Chop up the onion and the garlic (use a garlic crusher if you find that easier, mine is shit so I’ve gotten quite good at chopping garlic out of necessity). Chuck the garlic in the pan of tomato sauce. Now turn the heat on. Drink some wine.


Transfer the mince to the saucepan and brown the onions in the frying pan. Try not to drop half of the mince onto the cooker like I did… or drop it and call it ‘cooking with flair’ – like I did. Top up your wine glass with some more wine.

I like onions quite caramelised but you can brown them to whatever extent you want:



Chop up the chorizo if using (I normally use about a quarter of the Tesco sausage) and add to the saucepan. Drink some wine.


IGNORE IF USING PASSATA. Add tomato puree to the saucepan. My mum dilutes hers in water before adding but I think it makes the sauce too runny so I just squeeze some out onto the wooden spoon and mix it in. The juices from the meat/tomatoes will dilute it anyway.


Add the onions to the saucepan. You should now have a hot mess that looks a little bit like this. Taste it and if it’s a bit plain then put in some more tomato puree/herbs/paprika.

Leave to simmer for about 20 minutes on a low heat (my mum puts a lid on, I don’t) and cook the spaghetti – remember to only put it in the pan when the water is boiling, put a drop of oil in to make sure it doesn’t stick together, blah blah. Drink some wine in the meantime.

Drain spaghetti, transfer everything onto plates and pour some more wine. Voila:


Sprinkle parmesan over the top (yes, it smells like feet but it tastes awesome SO GET USED TO IT) and enjoy.

As an aside, that tomato sauce base (chopped tomatoes, onions, garlic, paprika and mixed herbs) doesn’t just make bolognese sauce; it’s great for everything from pasta to a chicken casserole. Just don’t drop any on yourself because it’s a bastard to wash out of clothes.

The ingredient quantities aren’t regimental; if you find the sauce too thick, don’t drain the tomatoes. If it’s not hot enough, add some chillies. If it’s too garlicky, leave out the cloves next time. Add peppers or aubergine; do whatever the fuck you want with it. Heston does some pretty weird food combinations and everyone thinks he’s a genius.

So there you go, spaghetti bolognese. How do you make yours?


Cutest Thing Of The Week

I haven’t done anything interesting this week apart from make authentic caipirinhas (Brazilian liquor cocktails that will knock you out) so here are some photos of my friends’ kitten. Everyone loves photos of kittens.

Oh, and I now have a Pinterest. In case you can’t be bothered to scroll down to the sidebar, here’s the link. Follow me and look at some pretty pictures.

His name is Smokey and he has a brother from another mother called Bandit



His favourite thing in the world ever is those Felix cat treats, he'll come running from the other side of the house when he hears the bag rustle

His favourite thing in the world ever is those Felix cat treats, he’ll come running from the other side of the house when he hears the bag rustle


If you pick him up after he's tired himself out, he'll sleep on your lap and twitch his tiny little paws

If you pick him up after he’s tired himself out, he’ll sleep on your lap and twitch his tiny little paws

The Craziest Thing About Mankind

The first people to see the Earth from space must have lost their shit. Think about it. You spend all your life looking at the moon in all its’ phases and all of a sudden you’re on the freaking moon and it’s dark and there’s still a lit-up ball in the sky except instead of being white with a funny crater face, it’s blue and green and yellow and white. You’re tiny, and alone, on an uninhabited rock where literally no one has ever been before.

I feel tiny and alone whenever I look up at the stars or clouds and think about where I fit in the world’s grand scheme of things. If I looked at the Earth’s curvature from space, I would have a full-blown existential crisis on the spot.


From left: Michael Collins, Edwin Aldrin, Jr., and Neil A. Armstrong. Source

And then they came back down to Earth, landed successfully and got treated like heroes because America won the moon landing race, fuck yeah! It must have been so strange being immersed in the world you watched from an orbiting rock like an alien god a few days ago.

Because really, the human race and what we’ve done with the planet and society is really fucking weird. We’re essentially a fluke; the only reason you’re reading this today is because 13 billion years ago a huge ball of gas blew up and we got stuck in orbit at an optimal distance to sustain bacteria. We’re ants on a rock, and yet we’ve evolved to develop some crazy shit, like:

  • Law. I’m not talking about criminal law, which is basically systematisation of cavemen killing other cavemen as revenge for killing some more caveman, but stuff like marriage – you’re only allowed to be in love with one person at a time (in the past you were basically allowed to own a woman), and you can’t be in love with another person you haven’t signed a contract with. Some countries actually punish that by physical violence (stoning etc). Fuck.
  • Fashion. People cut fabric into elaborate shapes and as a society we choose what we should be putting over our bodies every season. People who don’t put a certain cut or pattern over their bodies in a certain season are considered losers.
  • Brands. We pay extra money for a name, and we assign status and respect to what is basically a name, in everything from furniture to drinks to cars. We judge others depending on what name is printed on the label of their shirt or on their keyring.
  • Currency. We have bits of paper that we exchange for goods. Some countries’ bits of paper are worth more than others’.
  • Businesses. Owning companies, company structures (limited, partnership, sole trader, etc).
  • Stock market. Just fucking… what.
  • Those plants that make you chilled out and a bit hungry? Yeah you can sit in a tiny cell with no human contact for decades for smoking those. Drink these fermented grapes instead.

Basically we’ve developed this insanely complicated world based on centuries of patchwork traditions, yet when it comes down to it we’re just clusters of atoms wandering round a rock that spins around a burning ball of gas. And I think it doesn’t hurt to remember that once in a while.

Growing Up In The Russian Wild West

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There’s a name for people like me – I’m a ‘child of the Perestroika’, a series of economic and political reforms instated after the fall of Communism and the Soviet Union. 90’s Russia is widely known to be a time of lawlessness, widespread corruption and rapid change, but the reality for most people was probably not what you would’ve expected it to be.

For the first eight years of my life, I lived in a satellite suburb of Moscow called Zelenograd. Check the Wikipedia link if you want the full history lesson but the short version is that it was built to be a Russian version of Silicon Valley, was a closed city at one point (meaning no pesky secret-stealing foreigners were allowed in) and now loads of people move there because it’s not as insanely polluted or expensive as Moscow but has great rail links for commuting there for work.

A typical train (source)

A typical train (source)

The train station, Kryukovo, was a busy part of town. Kiosks and small shops called pavilions lined the street outside, open late for commuters (out-of-town shopping centres weren’t a thing back then) and there was a market that sold everything from clothes to fruit and vegetables. There were also babushki sitting on fold-up chairs in a row selling bunches of seasonal flowers from their dachas. There was a stall selling draught kvas, a traditional Russian savoury version of Coca Cola, a big vat of it with a tap on the side and a bored overweight woman sitting under a cafe umbrella. I was more interested in the stall with the huge cooler box full of ice cream for just five roubles.

We lived in a five-storey panel apartment block called a Khrushyovka, ten minutes away from the station and yes, we had carpets on the walls. The neighbours were more or less friends until someone started taking a shit in the hallway every night and the atmosphere became that of chlorine and suspicion.

There was one time when my mum was walking home from the station late at night and got followed by a man all the way to our front door but we never experienced any actual crime.

My mum was a single mother (which was unusual for that time but it wasn’t unusual to have a boyfriend who was an asshole and ran off) but that didn’t mean we were isolated. There was a strong family-oriented culture at the time and my babushka (grandmother) and dedushki (grandfathers) were around constantly, especially as my mum was working in Moscow full-time as an accountant for a US company. She later told me she effectively blagged the job and had no idea what she was doing most of the time but she seemed to do well for herself regardless.

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A corner of the Khrushyovka and babushka taking me sledging

Dedushka Sasha (Alexander), me and some Soviet-era swings

Dedushka Sasha, me and some Soviet-era swings.

We were never a rich family – we never had a car or a fancy TV. Even when my mum bought our first Sony to replace the Rubin, the programming was so shit that I preferred to pull a random book off a shelf. That was how I majorly got into crime fiction such as Rex Stout and Earl S Gardner as well as discovering Joanna Chmielewska, but also The Art of Erotic Massage and Story of O. The latter two later mysteriously disappeared until I found them hidden at the back of the tallest shelf a few years ago.

I started kindergarten fairly early; when some of the other children asked where my dad was, I told them he was dead. I never miss him – you can’t miss someone you’ve never met. The worst thing about kindergarten was the afternoon naps – we had to lug out these fold-out beds and sleep for something like 3 whole hours. I would get so bored I would take out my hairclips and play ‘dolls’ with them.

I started school at 7 because my family wanted me to go to a gymnasium, which was basically a selective primary school and took kids on a year later than standard Russian primary schools. To help prepare for exams, I was tutored by a nice woman called Anna Viktorovna at her flat. She had really curly hair and a Siamese cat. She worked for the gymnasium where I was enrolling and we had to pretend we didn’t know each other when we met in the hallways.

I had English lessons once a week after school (most memorable lesson: (female) teacher wore a crochet top with nothing underneath. NIPPLES) and violin lessons once a week during school but that wasn’t helicopter parenting by any means, it was just what people did to give their children a good education. After a while I ‘accidentally’ smashed my violin against a wall on the way home from school.

The Rubin TV set I mentioned earlier went straight to the dacha, a wooden house in the country surrounded by what I could only describe as a chaotic small-scale farm. This was the grandparents’ domain – dedushka Misha and babushka grew tomatoes, cucumbers and peppers in big greenhouses and there was also everything from gooseberries to potatoes. I’m not talking about cute grandparents-pottering-about-the-garden style gardening, it was a ‘why the fuck would you need to go to a supermarket to buy any vegetables when we have more than enough here’ type of operation. Anything that wasn’t eaten fresh was pickled and stored in the cellar.



I spent summers and school holidays at the dacha. Most families had both parents working and there was no such thing as private childcare. Besides, the family support system was so strong that it was unthinkable for someone other than the grandparents to babysit. As a result there were about fifteen of us around every summer. My grandparents were busy during the day; babushka spent most of her time tending to the vegetation and dedushka Misha was either fixing things (he was a carpenter by trade) or, as I found out later, having a sneaky drink in the summer house at the bottom of the garden. Even though the whole concept of a house in the country and a summer house sounds posh, it was anything but; the water came from a well we shared with our neighbours, the shower was a wooden hut with a rainwater barrel on top and the toilet was another hut with a pit dug out underneath and a city of spiders living in the roof.

The other dacha residents were a tabby called Malyavka with plenty of battle scars and half of one ear missing, and a black mongrel guardswoman called Aza, same as many of our neighbours. Dacha cats had very different lives to city cats; they ate scraps and whatever rodent they caught. The dogs lived outside in kennels apart from in the winter, and there was a Mexican wave of barking at night when a tipsy dedushka shuffled past on his way home from an evening at a friend’s dacha.

The lack of home comforts and adults to wrap the kids in the proverbial cotton wool meant I had a pretty fun childhood. We all learned to ride bikes at an early age and spent our days bombing down forest paths, stealing dedushkas‘ valuable planks and nails to build structurally horrific treehouses and baking potatoes in coals. Sometimes a cool older sibling was dispatched to keep us in check. Then we would ride out of the village and down the road to the dam, where we would jump into the water off a rope tied to an overhanging tree branch and miraculously not get sepsis from broken glass at the bottom.

I ended up staying in contact with one of the girls from the dacha era after I moved. She was a bridesmaid at my wedding and wants me to be godmother to her daughter.


Sometimes someone’s parents would come down from the city and have a shashlik – a Russian version of a barbeque and similar to a shish kebab – skewers of marinated pork placed on top of a mangal, which is basically a deep metal box with holes in the bottom, filled with charcoal. Side dishes were usually potatoes and salad (homegrown of course – the dedushki and babushki would be mortally offended if their children preferred shop-bought. All the neighbours joined in and someone would bring a guitar over. The kids would be offered a glass of wine while the veterans of drinking stuck to ice-cold shots of vodka. I would fall asleep listening to the sounds of a crackling bonfire and uneven drunken singing.

My sister, when younger, with one of the post-Malyavka cats.

My sister, when younger, with one of the post-Malyavka cats. She’ll kill me if she ever sees this photo.

It’s easy to see everything through rose-tinted glasses when you look back at your life, but I still believe I had a much better childhood than my sister, who spent hers stuck to a TV screen and a computer. We were poor as hell but I was happy, healthy, didn’t place much value on material goods and learned how to make my own entertainment.


Marquise the city cat with some flowers from the dacha. We found him cowering on the landing one day, he purred his way into the flat and never left.

Of course there’s always going to be some nostalgia when you look back at a time you didn’t have to hold down a job, worry about your credit rating or whether 0% yoghurt is a fad. The photos might be outdated and your brain might helpfully remember all the moments that make you cringe but the moment you stop feeling ashamed of where you came from is the moment you become a proper adult. Your past shaped you into who you are today and you should be proud that your family, friends and environment did such a good job to turn you into the awesome motherfucker you are today. That’s the philosophy I’m sticking with, anyway.

Bucket List

I’ve been meaning to make one of these for ages – a bucket list is a list of things to do before you die (or ‘kick the bucket’). For me, it’s also a list of things I want to do that would make me feel like my life hasn’t been meaningless, like I’ve not only done things that have shaped me as a person but also made the world a better place.

These are the things I have come up with so far (NB: the list is incomplete and will probably be added to)

Celebrate Día de Muertos in Mexico

Wikipedia says: “Day of the Dead (SpanishDía de Muertos) is a Mexican holiday celebrated throughout Mexico and around the world in other cultures. The holiday focuses on gatherings of family and friends to pray for and remember friends and family members who have died. Traditions connected with the holiday include building private altars called ofrendas, honoring the deceased using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed, and visiting graves with these as gifts. They also leave possessions of the deceased.”

Get a full driving license

I have a provisional license, mostly for ID purposes, but I have always regretted not learning to drive as soon as I was old enough. At the time my parents didn’t have much money, and what I earned from part-time bar work went straight back into the bar’s till. Now, with credit cards and overdraft debts, and an imminent move to London, driving lessons are on the backburner although I did enjoy the couple that I had.

I’m convinced that the earlier a person starts driving, the better a driver they become, and also that if that person learns to drive in London, s/he will never be scared of driving anywhere else, so more lessons are definitely in the pipeline. It’s just a question of money (as usual).

Go to Rio Carnival

Back to Wikipedia for the source: “The Carnaval in Rio de Janeiro is a world famous festival held before Lent every year and considered the biggest carnival in the world with two million people per day on the streets. The typical Rio carnival parade is filled with revelers, floats and adornments from numerous samba schools which are located in Rio (more than 200 approximately, divided into 5 leagues/ divisions).  Street parades, blocos and bandas take place throughout the city of Rio during Carnival. There can be more than 300 bandas taking place at any given point in time. According to police estimates, more than 5 million people attended a bloco during Rio Carnival 2012 and there was not one reported incident of crime.”

So basically, it sounds like the best street party in the world – what’s not to like?!

Swim with dolphins

I know, one of the most cliched bucket list items, along with “write a novel”, but it would still be magical.

Shoot a gun

When my mum was at school in late 60’s/early 70’s Russia (then USSR), they had a class called Civil Defence. One of the tasks in this class was to take apart and put back together an AK-47 – pupils were timed and my mum scored the fastest time, multiple times. The downside of the Perestroika is that I never got to do anything cool like that, but I’ve seen an advert for a shooting range in Poland where you get to run around with anything from a Glock to a Kalashnikov, and that would be cool as fuck.

Donate a piece of medical equipment to a vet

On a less deadly note, I’ve always had a soft spot for animal charities because if there is a God, they are doing God’s work helping those that in Russia are called ‘our little brothers’. When I was out of work and returned from the Job Centre one day to find my cat alternating between collapsing and peeing blood all over the flat, I don’t know what I could’ve done without PDSA. They saved his life and I’ve always wanted to do something for them in return.

But – I do feel funny about just donating money. It feels like a bit of a cop-out, and I always feel like that money is probably just going to pay the directors’ salaries rather than buying food or medication for the animals. Directors are necessary to run a charity but I still prefer that the money goes to the root cause. So I’d like to buy equipment for a PDSA hospital – like an X-Ray machine or a CT scanner or any other scanner. If I win the lottery, that will be the first thing I do.

Visit Chernobyl/Pripyat

On 26 April 1986, an unexpected power surge in Reactor 4 led to a series of explosions and an eventual highly radioactive fallout over an extensive geographical area, leading to evacuation of 350,400 people from the most contaminated areas of Russia, Ukraine and Belarus.

When people were evacuated from the nearby town of Pripyat, they were given almost no time to gather their belongings. As a result, the ghost town has become a goosebump-inducing ghost town and screenshot of Soviet life at the time – some photos can be found here and an interesting blog post here. It’s not your standard city break but if after seeing the photos and reading that blog post you don’t understand why someone would want to go there, I’m not sure how to explain it!

Adopt a retired greyhound

When I was younger, my stepdad owned a racing greyhound that won a shitload of awards in races. When it retired, I begged my parents to take it in but his co-owner adopted it and we got a cat.

Lately I’ve been thinking about how lovely they are and even went to Croftview Rehoming Kennels to walk a few dogs. I was amazed at how friendly and well-behaved they were, and read up on their general behaviour and temperament when I got home. Apparently, the fact that they need loads of exercise is a myth – they actually do pretty well with 30 minutes of moderate exercise a day, the standard amount that a human requires. They sleep a lot of the time, have been nicknamed Velcro Dogs because they love human contact and will follow their owner from room to room, and get on well with cats. Plus by adopting one, I would be doing a good deed by giving an ex-racing dog a good home.

How can you not love this adorable face... aww!

How can you not love this adorable face… aww!

Own my own house/apartment

Pretty standard/suburban bucket list item… but not only does it bring safety and security to life, it also requires a hell of an effort to accomplish. I can imagine there’s no relief quite like the relief you feel when the last mortgage instalment is paid.

Design a heirloom piece of jewellery that will be passed on through generations

At this point in time I don’t want children, but I’m happy to admit that this may well change a few years down the line. I have a silver ring that my mother used to wear, and before that, my babushka (grandmother), and now it’s on my finger. I’d love it if my daughter (or niece) had a similar piece of jewellery, one with history attached to it, that they could show to people and say, “Oh, a woman called Elena designed that, back in 20..”.