The Potter by Margaretha Kirkham


When she was in her mid teens her dad took her to see a phrenologist. She had a vague idea what it was about and off they went.


An elderly man started feeling his way around her head and made comments to her dad about a bump here and a bump there. At the end of it all he said: “She is going to choose a lonesome profession”. Then they went home.


Many, many years later, I remember with joy the quiet, creative days at the potter’s wheel, the feel of soft terracotta clay in my hands and the shivers of excitement as I opened the kiln to reveal my work.


The radio was playing classical music quietly and the dog was snoozing in his basket and it was a good day……


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