Be nice to your fireman this Christmas

For the last two years I’ve worked in the evening on Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve and as a gesture of solidarity I’ve dropped off a bag of goodies at the fire station opposite.

The first time I did it I wasn’t prepared for the reaction I got. The man who answered my tap on the door seemed absolutely stunned that I had done this. He said “thank you” so often I started to get embarrassed and walked away feeling a bit tearful. The same thing happened the following year.

What amazes and saddens me about this is that the fire station in question is not stranded on a suburban roundabout. It is right next to homes and offices on a busy street. I can understand that those working in the office buildings aren’t around during the evenings and weekends but they must, as I do, see the engines rush off to a call. The flashing lights, sirens and bells are hard to miss. As for those who live right on the doorstep - if you’re reading this, I hope you’re ashamed of yourselves.

I know that when I spend an evening at work the worst thing that could probably happen to me is that I might trip over the vacuum cleaner cable or get splashed by something unspeakable. The chances of my dying from smoke inhalation are pretty slim (as long as certain people avoid using fire extinguishers as doorstops), as is that of being maimed for life in the course of my shift. However that could happen if it wasn’t for the speedy response of the folks across the road. They take that risk to stop it from happening to me.

Over recent years the emergency services have become the targets of, well, what do I call them? Thugs? Yobs? Uncontrolled, uncontrollable children and teenagers who take pleasure in assaulting the people who go the extra mile to keep us safe. There are places in the UK where starting a fire and calling the fire brigade so that they can lob things at them is entertainment. The same risks are faced by ambulance crews. While the police might to some extent regard this kind of behaviour as going with the territory it is almost beyond belief that anyone should want to target a fireman or a paramedic in this way.

That aside, I think the fact that we do not value those working for the emergency services speaks volumes about the sense of entitlement that has developed in our society. It has taken campaigns and images of amputees and coffins to awaken our respect for the armed services. Perhaps that’s the problem. If firemen, nurses and policemen were dropping like flies on a daily basis the majority might begin to notice their contribution.

Another obstacle to their being looked up to by the community that they serve is that, unless it is a very small one, they do not usually live where they work. In the case of the one that I am familiar with they probably can’t afford to live there. There is a sense of separation and the living breathing humans who do this work are just uniforms rather than recognisable members of the community. I don’t know that we can change that. The development of Safer Communities Teams have certainly helped to give our local police recognisable faces. This Christmas it even meant a home baked cake from me. When I was a child we knew our beat officer so well that when he retired he gave me the metal flower from the top of his helmet as a souvenir. I still have it somewhere. It’s interesting that in the idealised realms of childhood, for example Trumpton, it is taken for granted that there is a local fire brigade and we all know their names.

It isn’t about the food because, let’s be honest, many of us are already sick of mince pies by Christmas Day. It is the gesture that counts and the thought that someone, even if it’s just the eccentric cleaner from the building opposite, has noticed the effort you make when the rest of the world is tucked up safe in bed.

In praise of small dogs

Recently I was given the sad news that a four legged acquaintance of mine had lost an argument with a car. Walter the miniature dachsund was a charming little dog, the sort that actually makes you want to own one. Unfortunately he wasn’t built for speed. Slow forward movement seemed to involve a fluid wiggle, anything faster meant a jog trot that required more concentration. If I greeted him as he was on his way past in a hurry he wouldn’t look directly at me but his eye would swivel round with a look that said “Awright? See ya!” With a slightly German accent, obviously.

I like dogs in general but there is something special about the ones that don’t come up to my knee. It isn’t that they are more cute or cuddled more easily, in fact it would be a mistake to assume that they are all sweet natured. I have a childhood memory of the neighbour’s tiny Yorkshire terrier, Percy, chasing two terrified German Shepherds, mother and son, back to their home round the corner (“What the hell was that?” “Who cares, shut up and run!”).

When I deliver leaflets for the local allotment association I always exercise caution at a particular address. I’ve only ever seen this dog from a distance but I’ve felt its hot breath on my fingers as it drags the hapless piece of paper through the letterbox (placed conveniently at ground level) and shreds it for its owner. I persist as there have been a couple of occasions when this hasn’t happened but I‘m glad I‘m not their postman. I’d be surprised if they ever see their birthday cards.

Sometimes I wonder what it must be like to see life at their level, to get a crick in the neck looking up at the person their world revolves around. I once found myself behind a man on a mobile phone, oblivious to the fact that the small dog he was walking (not his I suspect) could not keep up with him. At times he was dragging it along. Hell was made for people like that.

I expect there is also room down there for the idiots who have followed the example of celebrities like Paris Hilton, owner of several “teacup” Chihuahuas. Unfortunately for these airheads the Chihuahua is one of the longest lived of all dog breeds (they last even longer than Louis Vuitton dog carriers) and can develop expensive heath problems. Consequently dog shelters in the USA are now receiving more of these little dogs than they can cope with as many owners discover that they are less disposable than clothes. At least Paris keeps her excess dogs, she has around seventeen.

She is just following in the footsteps of other rich and famous people. Marie Antoinette and Madame de Pompadour owned Papillons, and small dogs often peep out of portraits of royalty and the aristocracy. The tiny dog belonging to Mary Queen of Scots accompanied her to her death, emerging from beneath her skirts following her beheading. Some dogs were designed to be carried, such as the Goh-Khi of Tibet, a “sleeve dog”. For most of its history the Pekingese could only be owned by members of the Chinese Imperial court, the ultimate toy dog.

My personal experience of some of these breeds has not been a happy one, although I’m sure that not all are snappy and irritable. I suspect that, just like humans, they may get a little fed up as they get older. It's allowed. As a small child I played with my grandfather’s lovely Westie (highly appropriate for a Presbyterian minister) whose favourite game involved knocking down a set of plastic skittles. It was probably my grandfather who told me about Greyfriars Bobby, the most faithful of dogs, who stayed at or near, the grave of his master for fourteen years. He was a Skye terrier, a native breed now considered to be at risk.

If I was forced to choose a breed I would probably go for a Jack Russell. On the way home from work I have sometimes found myself behind one on his regular evening stroll and noticed that every few paces he would give a skip. I just had to ask his owner if he always does that and discovered that it is a characteristic of the breed. From behind it is a little like watching Morecambe and Wise dance off into the distance at the end of a show. I take these straightforward little dogs very seriously, having seen them at work killing off rats. It is easy to forget that many of these small breeds once played an important part in agricultural areas, hunting for vermin. So many residents of the White House have owned Scottish terriers (bred to fight badgers) that it is tempting to think of them as being good at herding US presidents. Alas, they cannot stop them from making stupid decisions.

For Raki, as a late birthday present.
My thanks to Alli and the waggylicious Hettie for posing and for not finding me at all weird for asking!

http://www.ericandern.co.uk/pages/songs.asp
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Greyfriars_Bobby
http://www.dogstrust.org.uk/
http://www.rspca.org.uk/home

Better than the real thing

A week or two ago there was a bit of a fuss over Cheryl Cole’s hair. Someone in the media felt it was time to notice the teeny-weeny disclaimer on the ad for the L’Oreal hair product she has been promoting. Those flowing locks in the photos? They aren’t all hers! Shock! Horror! She wears extensions!

This revelation has led to complaints to the Advertising Standards Agency by outraged viewers who believe that Cheryl’s hair only looks that good because of her natural hair extensions. Actually, they aren’t even natural ones. Her stylist says that the glue used on the natural ones was damaging her hair. The complainants include journalist and parent Daisy Goodwin who said that her nine year old daughter had asked her to buy the product because she wanted her hair to be just like Cheryl’s. I guess she wasn’t interested in any of the hundreds of other products pushed at us that have disclaimers for hair extensions or false eyelashes worn by celebrities in these ads.

The fact that Cheryl has managed to get nine year olds pestering their mums to buy a product is a testament to her power as a style icon, although I think much of her appeal lies in the fact that she is a gorgeous version of the girl next door. The girl next door would probably wear extensions if she could afford to maintain them but she has probably blown all her cash on one pair of Chanel earrings, or a high street version of a dress worn by Kate Moss.

Recently I was asked for directions by a young woman who was carrying a very smart Gucci bag. A smart Gucci carrier bag. They carry home evening gowns and handbags worth thousands of pounds and are then sold on by enterprising Ebayers. They are actually worth something in themselves. In Knightsbridge and Mayfair they end up amongst malodorous coffee grounds and vegetable peelings unless they are extracted in time by a maid or housekeeper with an entrepreneurial streak. I’m not proud, I’ve done it myself. They’re great for storing accessories. The best one I’ve bagged came from Miu Miu.

Naomi Klein's "No Logo" revealed the lengths that global brands will go to keep us interested. When I first read it I’m afraid that I was really impressed at how crafty they are. The hold of brands like Adidas is extraordinary, their products are as likely to be worn by those who have no intention of going near a track as those who do. I don’t know when they began designing items that fell entirely into the category of fashion but the dress I spotted in a catalogue shows that their place in the hearts of the fashion conscious is secure. If the girl next door wants to wear that dress (and she does) they’re doing fine.

Unfortunately the credit crunch has meant that funds are even more limited for those with expensive taste but it would appear that some aren’t letting a lack of cash get in their way. Shoplifting has become more common as those who really want something just steal it. The other option is of course the knock off. The local authorities do their best to clamp down on anyone selling this stuff in markets and at car boot sales but I suppose that as long as there is a demand there will be a supply. No thought given to those who make these clothes and accessories, working in sweatshops for little pay.

That also applies to some of the high street stores that produce fashionable but really cheap clothes. Primark seems to go out of its way to be seen as ethical after accusations of the use of child labour. If they are ever be able to control their supply chain to the extent that unacceptable practices of that kind are eradicated no one will be embarrassed to admit that they shop there. At this point I put my hand up and admit that I have come home with a brown paper biodegradable Primark bag full of cheap gloves or socks. And yes, I did feel guilty.

For some years The Attached One worked as a warehouse supervisor for a company that supplied leather clothing to a number of high street stores. This was at around the time when the demand for a constant supply of new designs developed, which meant short runs of a specific design that would hopefully sell out. If that happened the run would be repeated before the taste for it faded.

What amazed me was the disposability of these clothes. I keep clothes for years and make them last. I can’t imagine throwing anything away unless it is in shreds. It turned out that some don’t actually buy and then bin. They buy, wear, find a fault and return it to the shop for a refund. He and his colleagues would spend hours checking and processing returns.

One person at the company was developing the concept of selling designs that were near copies of clothes worn by celebrities or on screen. As Seen On Screen, ASOS, is doing rather well these days. As good as the real thing if not better.

All this makes me even more surprised that anyone was bothered that Cheryl’s hair has had some help. In an era when breast enlargements are something that a man might pay for as a gift for the woman in his life it seems a bit odd that anyone can get worked up over extensions.

Today's non-story

It seems that the Prime minister’s hand writing needs work. It would also appear that he sometimes writes letters in a hurry. We learn this courtesy of the Sun newspaper who have filmed the distressed mother of a soldier killed in Afghanistan who received one of his letters (“Exclusive to the Sun”) and plugged it on every news channel.

Jacquie Janes is in the process of grieving for her son, a 20 year old Grenadier Guardsman who died on the 5th of October this year. The Prime Minister sent her a handwritten letter offering his condolences. He spelt her surname incorrectly (“James” instead of “Janes") along with the words “greatest”, “condolences”, “yours” and “colleagues”.

Jacquie is very upset about this. In the Sun’s article she states that she is also upset about the fact that our armed forces are under equipped. This would suggest that she was predisposed to regard Mr. Brown’s condolences as offensive, whatever form they came in. So whether the letter was a calligraphic masterpiece or something cold and formulaic churned out by a flunky on a PC and signed in the PM’s absence by someone we’ve never heard of, the Sun would still have had a story.

In the last few days I have wondered whether it is wise for those bereaved by the present engagement in Afghanistan to allow the press into their lives beyond issuing the most basic statement. This week’s headline in my local paper was “Iceland bans poppy sellers” and the front page features the photograph taken some time ago of a local woman whose son was killed in Iraq. They obviously phoned her for a comment. The thing is, they will now always phone her for a comment. If they don’t she may wonder if they have stopped caring.

It is easy for someone made vulnerable through bereavement to find a journalist (and I use that word loosely where the Sun is concerned) a good listener who can feel their pain, especially if compassion fatigue has set in amongst others of their acquaintance. Journalists know this and use it. Even those we might regard as more reliable and sincere have an eye to their careers and what they will gain from their collaboration with someone like Jacquie Janes. They never forget that they are trying to get and hold an audience. Her sorrow is grist to someone’s mill. In this case it is the Sun who will sell many, many newspapers on the back of this ( yes, they have been fundraising for “our boys“ - it‘s great PR).

The Prime Minister is an extraordinarily busy man. He is blind in one eye and the sight in his other eye is deteriorating. He is running a country and engaging with other powerful people who make decisions that affect the lives of billions of people every day. He found time to write a letter to someone who does not fall into that category. Today, following the fuss over his letter, he telephoned Jacquie. That phone call won’t make any difference because the damage has been done. The story was not about Jacquie, her son or poorly equipped British forces. This was about the Sun’s owner and his politics. However you feel about Gordon Brown don’t lose sight of how the press manipulates the public mood. Don’t fall into the trap.

The PM can write a reasonably tidy letter. How do I know this? I attended an exhibition at the Pitshanger Manor Art Gallery called “Therefore I Am” organised by Breakaway, a charity that supports people with learning disabilities. It offers those visiting the exhibition the opportunity to complete a card that has the words “…therefore I am” in the bottom right hand corner. There are framed cards from Paul Daniels, Lynne Reid Banks and Lynda Bellingham amongst others.

In pride of place is one from Gordon Brown. His hand writing is as untidy as it is in Jacquie’s letter. I can’t remember anything about the standard of spelling. What I do remember is that he went into some detail to describe why he went into politics and his father’s influence on his life. Of course, you could argue that this is great PR, but there has been little publicity about the exhibition which is tucked into a side room at the gallery. I don’t think I would have been able to make that phone call after what has been said about that letter. Gordon Brown is not perfect but I would not be in his shoes for a £45million lottery win.

http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/news/campaigns/our_boys/2720283/Prime-Minister-Gordon-Brown-couldnt-even-get-our-name-right.html

Red for a reason

We are a few days away from Remembrance Sunday and Armistice Day. On Saturday we got our poppies from a Royal British Legion collector in Ealing and slotted them in where we could. I have seen them on people I would not have expected to have been wearing them. I have worn one every year since childhood, my mother expected it of me and as I grew older if I hadn’t already bought one myself she would provide it. When the words “Haig Fund” disappeared from the centre I noticed it. If I ended up with one that had a leaf as well as a flower I felt a little smug. For years I’ve wondered why they didn’t make ones with pins.

Papaver rhoeas, the cornfield poppy, grows easily in the disturbed ground of battlefields and it was a common sight to those who took part in the First World War. A Canadian surgeon called John McRae immortalised the image of silky blood red flowers amongst the crosses that, in 1915, were already marking the first of millions of graves in his poem “In Flanders Fields“. Many still lie where they fell, waiting to be discovered by the turn of the plough.

Red poppies were eventually sold as fundraisers by the British Legion which was founded within three years of the end of the Great War to act as a voice for ex-servicemen (it became the Royal British Legion in 1971 following the granting of a Royal Charter). White poppies were first sold in 1933 by the Co-operative Women’s Guild who wanted to support the many disabled veterans and prevent further wars. They are now provided by the Peace Pledge Union.

Over the years I have seen a few white poppies worn by old soldiers in the parade past the Cenotaph in Whitehall but the vast majority wear red ones. I haven’t taken much notice of white poppies or those who wear them until now but they were brought to my attention by someone on Facebook who was encouraging members to join the White Poppy group that has been set up on the site. I followed the link to the official website and ended up feeling quite angry as a consequence. It wasn’t just that they had used the image and story of Harry Patch, the last remaining WW1 veteran, to promote their cause.

I object to the assumption that seems to have been made by some white poppy wearers that those who wear a red one are absolutely in favour of war. If a similar, negative generalisation was made about those who promote the white one there would be an outcry from the media savvy anti-war movement. Old soldiers are usually the first to tell you that war is a terrible thing. They don’t need lessons from a generation saved from conscription by a standing army made up of volunteers.

These volunteers sometimes do what they are ordered to even though they do not have much faith in the politicians who send them to war. They go back into the theatre of operations in spite of a lack of adequate equipment and their own fears. It is the efforts of people like this that has made it possible for others to talk about and live in peace. They don’t just go to kill - they build essential bridges, repair schools and hospitals, train police forces and armies. Sometimes they do it in their free time because they want to help, encouraging their friends and families back home to fundraise for that cause. The five British soldiers whose deaths were announced today died alongside two of the Afghan policemen they were mentoring. They were doing something positive.

On its Facebook page the White Poppy group states that “The White Poppy symbolises the belief that there are better ways to resolve conflicts than killing strangers.” The Peace Pledge Union believes that the solution to situations such as Afghanistan is a UN force. Try telling that to the British soldiers who, under the auspices of the UN, tried and failed to protect people on all sides of the conflict in the former Yugoslavia. Hamstrung by their mandate, they and forces from other countries were obliged to stand back and watch while men, women and children were herded away to their deaths in places whose names have become as familiar to us as the battlefields of the Somme and Ypres were to those fighting in World War One. I’d love to see how those who regard the UN as the cure for all ills would cope with the nightmares that these people still get because they were not allowed to use force.

To make those blue helmets as effective as they should be you first have to sort out the lumbering apparatus that is the UN and that will take some doing. In the meantime are we expected to stand back and watch as another Rwanda, another Bosnia, another Somalia starts up because conflict is a terrible thing? It makes me wonder if those who are against war at any cost have a genuine understanding of the sort of people our forces are up against. How do you reason with those prepared to cut off the purple stained fingers of voters in Afghanistan? How do you talk to men who behead foreign workers because they wanted to feed their families?

Apart from that, I don’t think the efforts of “peacemakers” are always welcomed by those they are trying to help. Live rolling news allowed millions of viewers to see a crude banner made from a painted sheet held up by Iraqis following the fall of Baghdad to US forces. The hotel they were standing in had been a temporary home to foreign peace activists who were hoping to put off air raids. Judging by what it said on the banner the Iraqis they were standing shoulder to shoulder with were pleased to see them go and the cavalry arrive. One of the words rhymed with “bankers”. In 2005 four men, including Norman Kember were kidnapped in Iraq. One of them was shot dead but the rest were eventually rescued by British special forces who had spent weeks looking for them. All those resources used up on peacemakers who should not have put themselves in danger.

I accept that in a democracy we have the right to express an opinion as long as it does not deliberately inspire hate and violence. If a veteran chooses to wear a white poppy I have even more respect for him because he has made his choice based on genuine experience. However those who wear red ones have the right to take pride in their achievements and if that means parading with brass bands then so be it. The guns carried in these parades are for the defence of our country as much as they are for war abroad and I take pride in the men and women who carry them. If it ever became necessary for me to pick up one of those guns myself I hope that I would be able acquit myself as well as they do.

What many of my contemporaries forget or have never learned, cushioned as they are from reality by the freedom made for them from war, is that the true soldier loves peace but it isn’t always an option.

http://www.poppy.org.uk
http://www.poppyscotland.org.uk/
http://www.whitepoppy.org.uk/
http://www.greatwar.co.uk/poems/john-mccrae-in-flanders-fields.htm/
http://blogs.telegraph.co.uk/news/ceriradford/3641401/Stop_the_crusades/
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4844800.stm

A pumpkin free zone

I’ve just finished re-reading “The Green Man” by Kingsley Amis in time for Halloween, a total coincidence but a great antidote to the US style “trick or treating” that seems to have taken over the country, largely encouraged by retailers as a way of getting in some more customers in the run up to Christmas.

Published in 1969, “The Green Man” describes the encounter by Maurice Allington, proprietor of the inn of the same name, with the ghost of Dr. Thomas Underhill. Allington discovers that he has a few things in common with the wicked 17th century parson and this connection is manipulated by Underhill. A womanising, alcoholic rogue, Allington spends as much of his time having affairs as he does running his inn. At the beginning of the book he is trying to set up a threesome with his wife and latest girlfriend and his alcohol intake is such that he cannot tell at first whether the apparition is actually down to booze. By the end we learn whether Allington has redeemed himself and conquered his fear of death. Set in a sweaty English summer at the end of the 1960’s this book will keep the winter away for a while. It is worth reading just for the way it evokes that time. One of my favourite characters is the appalling Reverend Tom Rodney Sonnenschein.

I have wondered whether Halloween evolved as a way to deal with a fear of death, the dark, the unknown. In Mexico, they celebrate the memory of those family members who have died on El Dia de los Muertos (The Day of the Dead), on the 1st and 2nd of November. Although skulls and bones are very much in evidence it isn’t about fear. Halloween seems to have developed differently in Protestant countries. I was taught about it at primary school but don’t remember it having the same impact that it does now. The impression I get is that it was something that was marked in the north of England and Scotland. It only gained popularity throughout the UK as a result of US television programmes and films.

I almost gave in and bought one of the large skulls in the window of a shop around the corner but am now glad that I didn’t as they are probably available at half the price now and do I really want it anyway? Apart from that I am not sure whether I want to give in at all to the plastic Halloween that takes over at least one supermarket aisle in September (alongside Christmas). Our experience of Halloween at our current address means that we now turn off the lights and put up a sign asking trick or treaters to stay away.

Years ago we answered the door to a tiny little girl, whose mother was some way off, and wondered what she could be thinking of to let her fragile child do this. I knew that there were a number of loud (if not dangerous) dogs in the street at the time, owned by nervous pensioners. Just having them bark at you could be frightening for an adult so I can’t imagine how a small child could have coped with it. On another occasion the door was answered to loud and demanding knock. A masked child had the wheel of his bike up against the front door and expected to be welcomed with open arms and, presumably, a bucket full of sweets. I can understand that, in the America depicted in “Desperate Housewives”, children are recognised by neighbours who are prepared for this kind of visitor and meet them with all the confectionary their little teeth can cope with. The problem is that I don’t live in Wisteria Avenue, there are hardly any families with children in the street and I wouldn’t recognise them if I tried.

The local Safer Communities Team has recognised that this tradition is not welcomed by everyone. They have been distributing cards to place on front doors with a polite message to put off unwanted callers. It is sad that well behaved children suffer the same discrimination as the nasty ones but I suspect the fact that we did not get any visitors this year is as much about the credit crunch as it is about good manners. I think that parents have been forced to concentrate on Christmas this year. This time around the pumpkins are for eating.

A pot addict confesses and appeals for help

Well, it got your attention didn’t it? Actually, the type of pot I am obsessed with is the kind you look at, fill with pot pourri or soup. Not the kind you smoke.



I haven’t given in to my addiction to things ceramic for a few years but I have just parted with £25 to help out a talented potter called Kirsty Badham. Her kiln came over all chaotic recently and destroyed some pots-in-progress. In an effort to raise the funds to repair it, Kirsty has offered to make a bowl in return for each of the 100 pledges of £25 that she receives through this site:
http://www.pledgeforapot.co.uk/



Now, I am trying to be helpful by doing this but I also see this as an opportunity to buy a unique and lovely thing at a bargain price - I’m not stupid - at a time when things are rather tight (I have yet to break the news to The Attached One that I have taken this course). In fact, if money was no object I know that we would not be able to move for things ceramic. I’m not sure how or when this need to own pots developed, it may have started at the British Museum where I fell in love with ancient pieces such as those made by the Beaker People. I expect Freud and Jung would see connections with wombs or similar but that’s all too complicated for me. I just like pots.



The last investment of this kind was a week’s wages spent on a bowl by Julia Jefferson. I needed a salad bowl and it occurred to me that I could eat from something handmade and beautiful rather than mass produced. It means a lot of careful hand washing but I still love it. When we brought it home I couldn’t stop looking at it and it seems to have been made for blackberries.



When I actually got the chance to make pots myself things just got worse. I don’t want to mislead you, don’t imagine that I am capable of slapping a lump of clay onto a potter’s wheel and turning it into something resembling a bowl. My efforts were restricted to pieces built from slabs or formed in plaster moulds, incorporating leaves and fabric dipped into slip (liquid clay). As far as I was concerned it was choosing the glaze that was the fun part.



Once I left college (and free access to a kiln, clay, glazes and knowledge) I had to buy my pots from other people, often potters who had stalls at festivals and fairs. I went through an unfortunate phase when I bought every chipped and manky piece of 1930’s crockery that I could find for 50p at car boot sales. Most of these are now living in boxes under my work room table. No Clarice Cliff unfortunately.



Some unusual items have made it onto the walls and into a display cabinet. I dream of eating from plates made by Sean Miller, an urban potter based in my area and one day that will happen. Until then I drool as I sit in front of the screen, perusing craftsmen potter sites. It has been a while so I think I deserve one of Kirsty’s bowls. Can’t wait to see it…

A