Seven years ago I started a weekly ceramics class at our local college and was soon completely hooked. At first, I made stuff at my kitchen table, but the constant clearing up of mess became more than I could bear, and I felt increasingly worried about the unhealthy combination of clay dust, food and family life.
A sympathetic friend donated her garden shed to us when she moved house and I plucked up the courage to bid for a potter’s wheel on e-bay…I didn’t know how to use it, but how would I ever find out if I didn’t give it a go?A frustrating (and freezing) clay-spattered learning process began, fitted around the demands of work (music teacher) and family.
Perhaps worse than the sad, saggy pots was the fear that I was simply too old to learn this skill. However, things improved and, unbelievably, a second-hand kiln sneaked its way into the garage… I began not only making but also firing my own pots…
Of course there were lots of mishaps and failures but if someone had told me five years ago that on my fiftieth birthday I would be sharing cake and coffee with friends and family on crockery I had made myself, I simply would not have believed them.