As a child and teenager, when it came to certain subjects, maths in particular, I never felt prepared, no matter how hard I studied. It’s hard to say whether this was because of the way I was taught –– my maths teacher was as exciting as his grey flannel suits –– or due to my attitude and aptitude. By the age of eleven or twelve, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was crap at fractions, and that I would never understand Pythagoras. My confidence was shot, which made learning that much harder. In those days, education sent children on either an arts or science channel quite early on, and it was unusual that you felt confident to move between the two. I was on an arts channel, eating books for breakfast, making collages out of old fashion magazines, and feasting on the details of the Battle of Hastings. Numbers weren’t in my wheel house. My best friend, Amy, cool and insouciant, was one of those rare girls who could whizz through an algebra problem, write a Haiku, and still have time to snog the cute boys at parties. I loved her confidence. To this day, my brain freezes when I’m presented with numbers to add or subtract. Like a six year old child, I use my fingers to make sense of it all. A few weeks ago, I was reluctant to challenge a taxi driver on a fare that didn’t compute in my head. My default, when it comes to numbers, is to assume that the other person is right, and that I am wrong. In this instance, I stood my ground and got my fair change. How many times have I been duped before? I can’t see myself taking a maths course, but I can see myself paying close attention to what my children are learning. Learning from them, I hope. And most importantly, speaking up when things don’t add up.

There’s something so beautiful and delicate about the tissue texture of poppy petals. My neighbour has some growing in her back garden, and every summer, they bring me such pleasure. Hers are enormous, and the colour of peaches. My Mum had a gorgeous dress made from moiré silk and those flowers remind me of that dress. She looked amazing in it.

Good golly, miss Molly, to think that there was a time when women dressed in floor length chiffon to go out to dinner. The last time I dined out, I wore wide flannel pants and a big wool jumper. I want someone to throw a dinner party that calls for gowns. Gowns with long gloves and decadent jewels. Maybe I’ll throw one myself. And serve takeaway sushi, or a large Carbonara.

I held a little pinch pot made by Hackney-based ceramicist, Ana Kerin the other day, and felt inspired to whip up some bowls of my own. They were small and wonky, with rims that looked unfinished. It was the imperfection, and the artist’s celebration of that imperfection, that I was drawn to. And yet, in my own attempts, I tinkered, smoothed and polished away all the lumps and bumps that I had so enjoyed in Kerin’s work. We’re so forgiving, embracing even, of another maker’s marks. Finger prints. Wonky rims. Scratchy signatures. But in our own work, we see flaws. Mistakes. Kerin’s style, confidence,  is one I aspire to. I’m on my way; practice makes more practice.