Writing is such an amorphous task. Even when you have a deadline and you meet it, you're never quite finished. Nothing else ever quite qualifies as anything other than procrastination. If you wash the dishes, you can accuse yourself of procrastinating. If you go to work: procrastinating. Hanging out with friends? You're only cheating yourself.

So every now and then, just for a moment, I find myself imagining doing something where an effort - physical rather than intellectual - yields a result. An old friend of mine is a cabinet maker - JEALOUS! Another friend knits actual clothing, as opposed to scarves that go nowhere because the incompetent person knitting the scarf doesn't actually remember how to cast off and then gets interested in watching series 3 of The Sopranos and discards the entire project only to find it, still attached to the knitting needles, when moving house years later.

Point is, for Christmas this year I got the Best Present Ever: a one hour pottery lesson. I've never been happier in my life. Look:  

I actually - rather than figuratively - got my hands dirty. And I produced something, too! Look:

Sure, slightly less useful than cabinet making but I get the feeling I'll be the proud owner of maybe a million bowls and oddly shaped vases if I give in to this mesmerising addiction. Still. It was fun to actually produce something. Next, I'm cleaning the car. Maybe. After another cup of tea.