I think of death it calms me down.
I have just returned from a day’s potting, and I am bent over like Quasimodo. Over the last eight weeks, on a Monday night, I have struggled and laboured to make eight mugs of similar size and shape. They are done and they resemble elephant’s feet with jug-ears. Maybe I had in mind something more along the lines of Rachel Kneebone’s exquisite grotesqueries, like Meissen confections of death and sadness and sex. The titles are like short poems. Almost enough in themselves.
I will console myself with the fact that you can’t drink coffee out of them.