My first flat was a tiny attic apartment that I rented in an old palazzo in a quiet quarter of Florence. It came furnished with a vintage wooden dining table and chairs, and a blue Ikea fold up sofa. My view was terracotta rooftops. There was a hole in the wall that sold shawarma in the alley below me, and a few minutes down the road stood the beautiful Santa Croce cathedral. We’d gather at my tiny flat, five or six students from our language school, and drink wine that smelled like vinegar, and play gin rummy for hours and hours. Sometimes, one of us would whip up an arrabiata in the galley kitchen, and we’d all take turns to wash up. Within a week of moving in, my little flat was everyone’s flat. To this day, I think of that place. My first home away from home. My first glimpse of independence. Where lifelong friendships began. Where we laughed, and shared stories and wished it could all last forever.

I’ve tried to throw clay on the wheel once in my life, and the experience was not so dissimilar to driving a manual car on the roundabouts of London. In both instances, there were far too many things to pay attention to and I felt quite overwhelmed. But I feel that the time has come to attempt at least one wheel again, and I choose the pottery wheel over the steering kind. It’s the practice, practice practice bit that turns me off, and turns most people off when they realize how much harder it is than it looks. But I think it’s a worthy challenge, and one that will open up possibilities for me, and perhaps even prove meditative if I can get the hang of it. It’s what both overwhelms and excites me about pottery, and life, how very much there is to learn.

I love the idea of putting on a ballgown to go to the supermarket, and some women I know, do just that. Maryam! Moira! But in actuality, I’d feel like a prawn in a patch of parsnips. Or a lemon, in room full of aubergines. You know what I mean. I’d stand out. And not in a good way. Not in the way that you want to stand out when you’re in floor length organza. But I do love to get all dressed up, and I have very few opportunities to do so. If not to the cinema, or out for a curry, when will I ever get to wear my frocks? We’ve been invited to a family wedding in California this year. Even if the dress code is beach casual, I’m wearing taffeta. Tulle. Or moiré silk.

I’m a big fan of Kara Rosenlund’s work. I discovered her through Instagram, and her photographs inspire me daily. I’ve looked at this photo of Namibian Herero women dozens of times. Their dresses! Hats! Their smiles! One day, I’ll buy one of Rosenlund’s beautiful beach scenes, maybe a shot from Byron Bay. This one caught my eye. A typical Tuesday at the beach.

We had a flood yesterday. The loo overflowed, and unbeknownst to any of us, filled the bathroom with enough water to paddle in. Thank goodness for Iole’s old camp towels, our trusty mop, and a jumbo supply of paper towel. A sense of humour helps in these situations. Mid-mop, I told my kids about how I used to flood our house regularly in my teen years. “I’d run a bath, get on my Garfield phone, forget about the running water, and twenty minutes later, hear yells from below.” My mum’s wardrobe was directly below the tub, but it was always Costas’ clothes that got drenched. Costas and my Mum met in the mid-80s a few years after we moved to London and he lived with us for about a decade. He is kind and steady and has impeccable taste. His wardrobe was filled with beautiful Zegna shirts and butter-soft Italian leather shoes. Never did Costas get upset with me during a flood. And never did he challenge me on stealing his hairbrush, or his stapler or his fancy felt tip pens. Not once. I pretty much ignored him through my teen years, and he was never anything but kind and patient with me. A year or two after he and my Mum separated I gave him a brand new Kent hairbrush, stapler, tape and pens all wrapped up in a Tiffany box. He didn’t say much, but about 15-years later, when I gave birth to Iole, he returned the tattered Tiffany box, this time with a silver baby hair brush and rattle inside. Full circles. Costas was just what we needed at that time. I’m quite sure we were just what he needed, too. It’s funny the stories that surface in a flood.

“There are many forms of love and affection, some people can spend their whole lives together without knowing each other’s names. Naming is a difficult and time-consuming process; it concerns essences, and it means power. But on the wild nights who can call you home? Only the one who knows your name.” Jeanette Winterson.