Seven Days. Seven Things

1 Last Sunday I rose at 5 and drove 5 hours north to collect my eldest daughter from the closest functioning airport. She has finished school. Forever she tells me. Home feels fuller. It is delicious to have somebody here 24/7.

2 I cast my first whole bowl. It didn’t crack. Lots have. I showed it to Husband, ‘some sweat’, I said, ‘a few tears and alot, alot, of blood’.

3 My mum calls daily. She is soaringly happy-well. Nothing is too much. Her energy and enthusiasm are boundless. The sun’s shining, she says. And I can hear her smile.

4 I cook oxtail soup. It belonged to a buffalo. The tail. Delia taught me how. I don’t know why it should feel like an achievement. But it does. An old fashioned achievement which scents the kitchen richly.

5 I make alot of mistakes in my fusing studio. I burn my fingers. I shed the odd tear of sheer frustration. And I spill a little more blood. But I cut and I cast and I fuse and it makes me happy. Despite the tears and the blood.

6 My eldest daughter gets her IB results. I can’t tell how she has done to begin with: she’s crying. But she’s laughing too. She got the points she needed; to go to Cambridge. I can believe she got in. I just can’t believe she’s mine. Her dad teaches her how to open a bottle of bubbly. What a nerd says her brother.

7 My Hat is on her long-way home: Amsterdam to London to Dar to Mwanza to the Outpost. I will rise at 5 tomorrow and drive the five hours north to collect her. And then I will drive the five home again and the house will feel even more deliciously full.

Advertisement