On New Year’s Day an old, faded obsession of mine struck again. As I was walking around the V&A, I came upon the ‘Bejewelled Treasures’ exhibition, a display of 100 jewelled extravaganzas from the seventeenth century onwards. It was very dark inside, and all the eye could see were illuminated jewels balanced in glass cases. They were arranged by the colour of the jewel: emeralds lay to the left, rubies to the right, and diamonds were, well, everywhere.

And suddenly, once again, I was seven years old.

The first time I was ever really excited about jewellery was in year three. My parents told me that if I learnt all my times tables I would be allowed to buy a bag covered entirely in jewels. I have no idea what happened to the bag, but I remember how it haunted my dreams, and I remember the triumph I felt when it was finally my own.

I only ever contemplated the idea of serious jewels in 2008, when my godfather wrote a book about Fabergé eggs. As I flicked through the pages the complete luxury and extravagance, coupled with the minute attention to detail, fascinated me and lured me into studying them with rapt attention. It was not the idea of owning a piece that really thrilled me, but the exquisite form of art each piece embodied. It was about what the power of creating something so beautiful represented.

This obsession with jewels, like many in my life, had stayed for a while and then faded from my mind. But as I wandered round the Al-Thani exhibition I couldn’t believe that this menagerie of jewels in cages was a private collection. I joked to my mum that maybe if I just wrote and explained how much I loved a particular piece, the owner might agree; they wouldn’t even notice its absence, let alone miss it.

I thought about what it would be like to walk around the tiny streets of Cambridge adorned in priceless jewels – wearing a huge emerald ring into a supervision; flashing a priceless brooch on my way to lectures – and came to the realisation that people might just reason that I had a taste for extravagant costume jewellery, and think me a bit strange. They would never imagine their price.

Maybe you, reader, own a diamond choker. Maybe you don’t. Either way, jewels are a complicated fantasy for those who don’t own them, a combination of The Bloody Chamber and bling – but perhaps quotidian for those who do.

The only jewels I currently have are a string of aquamarines, and my birthstone, a gift from my grandmother. The idea that the stone is termed ‘semi-precious’ is to me ludicrous because of what they mean to me. I don’t wear them, but keep them in a bag in the same shade of a dreamy light blue, and that’s enough to know that they are there.

In my opinion, jewellery is best kept secret. Whether it’s real or not isn’t important if no one knows, and if they can appreciate how it looks then the effect is the same. Jewels – subtly glinting or draped from head to toe – should not be shouted about, or hashtagged all over Instagram. At the end of the day, they are and are not a commodity – jewels have a dual function. They are art; they are a means of signalling wealth; they are a means of signalling taste and self-creation; they are a portable store of value.

But really, whichever value you decide to privilege over others is your decision. What matters is their meaning to you.