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Kiln<\/strong><\/p>\n weren’t my idea of oven, more like top loader weshing machine, but were all art college ‘ad. inside: an asbestos lined cylinder, seven shelves, each level ‘eld by a joggle, pizza-esque. my work were first to go in: anthers amplified in excess of natural size; stigma and stamen, didynamous pairs; extruded clay wrought ‘uman like but for pollen grains tweezed on outside. i’d transferred for welshman i loved; white rose had gone for a leek. gran said peg’d tecken prop for a toddle. i were young, din’t think in relief, believed Schr\u00f6dinger was name of some psychic cat purrin a box for laugh. i weren’t present when they lifted lid. occupying bottom shelf were to prove my undoing. i ‘an’t wedged clay reight; it’s fatal if an air bubble gets in. best part of a year’s work blown to smithereens. first in, blast out. walking into kiln room, i’ll nivver forget; a stormy neet. i went home to find all weshing off line, covered in muck in neighbours’ gardens. prop, fallen in long grass.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n