Tuesday pottery class

Two hours at the wheel where you are bad at it in a way you find genuinely restful, and the entire contents of your head are a cylinder. In September the two hours were a hole you climbed into, and this week, for the first time in about a month, they were not an escape from anything, just two hours of doing something badly with your hands.

It is not calm, you swear at it under your breath, but there is nothing else in there. No session notes, no Dale, no what-are-we-doing. It is also the one room in your week where nobody knows what you do for work, which you have kept that way on purpose and find yourself guarding. You drive home with clay under your nails and leave the radio off.