|Display courtesy of Ian White, Doreen Burgess and G and K Malin|
Once, years ago, I was approached by another mother at my son’s school.
‘You should volunteer for the kids’ activity next week,’ she said.
‘What activity,’ I asked.
‘They’re going to be doing ceramics.’
‘Yes. Didn’t you say that you did pottery?’
Well. Pottery. Poetry. They do sound similar.
Ever since then I’ve liked to think I’ve been busy with all manner of crockery, out in my potter’s shed in which a mess of words gets thrown at a wheel then grappled with and smoothed into a serviceable object – now a rustic jug, now a knick-knacks bowl, now an earth-hued goblet ringed with blue. And as the objects come off the production line, they are placed carefully on shelves according to type, and length of creation.
Occasionally, people passing by press a curious nose to the window, others enter and engage in polite conversation, yet others handle the goods with long consideration and nearly make a purchase – just like last week when my collection My Shrink is Pregnant came joint second in the Pighog Pamphlet Competition.
My Shrink, so nearly off to a new home, has gone back on the display case, but much closer to the door.
And I keep at it, am back at the wheel, hands dirty from shaping wet clay, ears cocked for a shuffle of feet of a prospective customer at the entrance way.