Clancy’s lead is still dangling, courtesy of a recent walk. Sweetpea, rolling on the floor, grabs it and holds it tight. Looking at the boy, I can hear his thought process: “My first activity, upon learning to walk, will be to walk this dog. So, all things considered, I’d better get cracking on this whole walking game.”
I’m pleased to note his ambition, even if it does mean the focus has so thoroughly moved on from my pot. In fact, Sweetpea’s mother and Nana are engaged in the current love affair between Clancy and Sweetpea.
They think it’s cute that the baby is so obsessed with Clancy. Sweetpea’s mother says the child has had some problems with the use of his right arm, but that his eagerness to crawl towards Clancy seems to be curing the problem. Nana agrees that both Sweetpea and Clancy are marvellous beyond compare, and that it’s lovely to see Clancy being such a positive figure in the young chap’s life.
Oh, give me a break. You hear them talk and Clancy is now a philosopher, a surgeon, perhaps a wise physio. Selflessly, he helps the grandchildren achieve their potential.
True, he is a really good dog. But what about those of us in the potter community? Some of us have a pot sitting here, one we made 52 years ago, which is not getting the attention it deserves.
I’ve been watching the TV program The Great Pottery Throw Down – a version of The Great British Bake Off for the pottery-inclined – and I believe my work is not too bad. Sure, the decoration is inept. It looks like I cut my hand making it and decided to staunch the flow by smearing it on the pot.
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And yet the pot, if I say so myself, is rather well thrown. I must secretly have had some regard for it since I’ve carried it around for a half-century, propping it onto various bookshelves, mantelpieces and desks.
The pot, also, is a bit of a portal into the past. Holding it, I realise I remember everything about myself at the age I made it. And I can remember all the houses I’ve lived in for the past 50 years, carrying the thing from one to the other as I discarded other objects, convinced for some reason that this ridiculous pot was part of my story.
But, you know, it is part of my story: Sweetpea just prodded it. And, in that moment, my past and my present collided and – what do you know – I liked it.
