The wheel at the back of the studio is older than anyone who uses it. It hums when it starts, settles into a low note, and from then on the only sound is water and the soft slap of a palm on wet clay.

Centring comes first, and it never gets quicker. You lean in with the whole body, not the arms, until the lump stops fighting you and spins without a wobble. Only then does the hole open, and the walls begin to rise.

The clay tells you when it is ready. You just have to stop talking.

Every pot here carries a line of words painted around its belly before the first firing: a name, a date, a line from a song. Turn the pot and the sentence comes round to meet you.