36 hours, and being Dickens there is a lot of redundancy, so it doesn’t matter if your attention wanders for a minute or two. This came in handy for a number of very dull jobs, and in fact is well read. I find Boz quite annoying, but every now and then I can’t help bursting into laughter,
One of the dull jobs: skipped it last year, but now it’s back to stirring and reconstituting neglected glazes, dried to solid discs at the bottom of pots. Also hunting for a low temperature glaze recipe which – and this is the key thing – uses up those bags of ingredients already sitting dustily on the shelf. Gerstley borate? No. Lead bisilicate? No. EPK? No. Ummm…
Boss-eyed with e-books, working on an imposition scheme seemed restful, until the prototype went wrong for the third time.
The traditional method (poundage a little excessive):
Being impatient, I also tried the modern method, in spite of a curious smell, which might have been the microwaved elastic bands. It sort of worked; though it is surprising how much water there was in these few small specimens. At least it used up the stack of essay drafts as blotting paper, a fate that they well deserved.
it’s a seasonal thing at any time, but after a long … long … sabbatical it was odd to sit to the wheel again. In fact, so long that I am impressed that it still goes at all. Best £50 I ever spent.
And after what seems like weeks sorting out the workshop, it’s good to have some new ware to put in it. Miniatures, so I can fool around with some new techniques. Don’t know what they will be yet, but one might work.
There is a pleasure in filing away papers, notes, drafts, books. I earned the day with an hour or two of gardening, and an hour or two of housework. Then – light, languid, almost convalescent – drinking tea, reading tosh, and talking to newts.
In a week of unremitting and necessary dullness, I took to watching dawn happen elsewhere. This, it turns out, was a good idea.
In case anyone else is having a dull week:
I’m showing my age again: the primary association of “consumption” for me is the coughing, haemorrhaging and fading millions leaving this worldly scene, led by Keats, Brontë and so forth. And I’m sure that unwritten History of Consumption would be fascinating, if distressing.
This is the other kind of consumption. I was made happy by the information in Chapter 2 about lupin seed stalls in classical Athens; unfortunately it is not one of the chapters I am supposed to be reading. A hasty route march through a chunk of 600+ pages is required.
And yet the sea was calm.
Mindless after heavy reading, simultaneously watching hail slither down the conservatory roof and watching the sea from the bridge of a ferry trundling on its route, drinking tea, hitting the refresh button at half-minute intervals.
Jet skis flicked in and out of view, in and out of the wake, playing the fool, sometimes only deducible by the lines of their own tiny wakes. Inbound container ships leapt past. Smokers risked the outside deck for a single frame. Black shower clouds loomed. The wake was lacy and beautiful on the smooth water, the buoys came up, the wake shrank and vanished, the ferry nosed into her berth.