It’s the white of good vanilla ice-cream, about 20cm long, and 6 at its widest, but tapers to less than half in places. It has an egg shaped hole about two thirds of the way down its flank which I’m rather fond of running my finger round at odd moments. I also like to peer through it and frame small parts of my workspace. Isolate a postcard sitting on a shelf, or a pot of pencils, or a hastily scribbled note  (‘where butterflies perch on teeth’*).  What it looks like depends on the angle from which you view it: from one it reminds me of the Elephant Man lying down to die; from another it’s a hammer-head shark. It appears to twist, but doesn’t. Alexander McQueen might have used it as a pendant. It looks smooth and cool as milk, but when you look closely you find it to be as textured as a fine silk rug, and at its broken edges, for it is not whole but a fragment, you find it’s full of tiny holes, like fossilised mousse, or a crisp net underskirt. On one side it has a deep impression that neatly fits my thumb, which likes very much to sit in it while I’m thinking. Though for some reason this inverse notch reminds me of a dentist’s chair. There’s something of a lady’s fan about it; it’s light, and fragile, and real. It reminds me of the south-east English coast close to where I grew up; of beaches, and fossils, and sea-foam. Of holidays and day-trips, running to the water’s edge in a hand-me-down swimming costume. Flask-tea, and sandwiches of fish paste specked with sand. I don’t know where it came from, it seems I’ve had it here beside me at my desk for years, but it’s likely The Mr. brought it home. He knows how much I like such things. Which makes me like them even more, its presence makes me feel understood, it’s a shared experience. 

There we are, then, anyone else who feels inspired to try and make something from that feel free.