Out back to the garage in the dark and cold, playing a kind of loathsome hopscotch over grey slugs which slime about even in December. As always I was longing for the heat in my face, the clean smell, and the sense of relief or exasperation, as it might happen to be.
Rather less like milk chocolate, and luckily the local clay hasn’t cracked. I’ve rushed these little plaques and the edges are rougher than they should be. Must check them over and use a carborundum to take down anything notably savage.
These are a dull idea, redeemed because they retain the chaste quality of the parent porcelain, while a judicious quantity of toilet roll (infra dig!) added to the body makes them lighter and warmer to the touch. They take a crisp impression, which may be useful for a more sophisticated future project.
I’m unsure what to do with the small pieces, though there are a few experiments ready to go. But the pierced hearts have arrived just in time to save my bacon; it’s the Christmas tree festival this week, and until this hour had no idea what to do for the family tree.