OK – it’s just a nice blue pottery bowl. What’s sad about that? This….
This pottery bowl was one of four, bought over forty years ago, before marriage, before children, in a little corner shop in Faraday Street in Carlton. I now have only one remaining.
When I took it out of the cupboard yesterday and the side fell out in my hand, I felt a strong sense of sadness and loss. Perhaps silly I know, but I thought of all the memories it brought back. I remembered the tall girl with long blond hair who lived and walked the streets of Carlton in a long pink Indian caftan on weekends, and who bought bowls one Saturday morning, and taking four of them home with pleasure to her flat. As a potter I recall handling them and wondering about the clay used and how the lovely glaze had been obtained. I remember Sam the ginger cat, who occasionally had some milk in one. I think of all the meals of pasta which have been enjoyed by family and friends over the years, using these lovely hand made bowls in my favourite colour. I remember my son eating many breakfasts of Wheetbix or Iron man food from them. I remember the bowl filled with potpourri I tried to make, but which ended up a mouldy mess. I remember the many homes and kitchens in which they have lived. I remember………
