I had a feeling for clay from early on. After poking around in the garden as a child, in the ochre yellow London clay that made our bricks, I first had a lump of potter’s clay in my hands at school when I was nine. Material you can squeeze that ends up rigid and lasting, shiny and colourful, has great appeal. The processes of coiling and slabbing clay let you build gradually from vague ideas, cutting your coat according to your cloth. Working its plasticity, waiting for it to be leather hard, imagination flows into the awkwardness, the physical constraints of the stuff. The things clay won’t do are gifts to the stubborn and spontaneous maker finding a path.