I’ve decided to use this blog as a place to flex my writing muscles and as a way to force myself to write as often as possible. I know I enjoy writing — when I actually get around to doing it — but finding the optimum combination of time, motivation and energy will be the main challenge. So here goes…

And then I got a smack

OK, so the background. When I was seven or eight, I had an overwhelming urge to carve, to create. I had grown out of plasticine, although I’m happy to report this was just a temporary condition and was cured when my kids, and then grandkids, came along.

So, the young me was on the hunt for another sculpting medium. I searched high and low for wood but we lived on a rough estate so any spare wood had already been burnt or was fixed too securely in place. I was almost bereft with frustration and starting to feel I would never find anything suitable. Almost ready to give up, I came across a large concrete breeze block amongst a thicket of ‘pee-the-beds’ and ‘mother-dies’. It was heavy and dirty, but I wiped off the crawlies and hurried it back home.

I don’t know how many hours I spent chipping away at this block, but it was — for me — one eternal moment of perfection. I had initially intended to create a romanesque bust that would be held aloft by my proud parents as reporters from every country came to marvel at the genius sculptor child. I quickly had to adjust these aspirations as the gap between intention and technique was somewhat wider than I’d anticipated. I adjusted my design ideas to fall more in line with my skill level and opted for an abstract totem pole effect. I continued on like this until all my dad’s chisels and screwdrivers had blunted beyond use.

I surveyed my work and like a proud artist set about finding a venue for the big reveal. I opted for the top of the telly which was sturdier than the glass table. I draped antimacassars over the top and summoned my family to the lounge.

Their reaction wasn’t what I’d hoped. Mum was great, she gave a confused grimace and then burst into applause, an automatic reaction to anything I did — probably as a result of reading too many child psychology books. Dad’s reaction was one of suspicion. He stood up and touched the artwork, casting his thumb in the dips, then narrowed his eyes at me. I wriggled a bit then, sensing something wasn’t quite right. ‘What did you use?’

When he saw what had happened to his tools he completely forgot to notify the press and instead gave be a bloody big smack across the back of my legs, the stinging of which I can still remember. I never lost my urge to carve though, and many years later, I drove all the way to Derbyshire for a one-day stone carving course. I spent the whole day just chipping away at a piece of limestone and was at once transported to that eternal blissful moment. I drove home with numb and swollen hands, covered in lime dust and bursting with a sense of achievement. I didn’t even get a smack when I showed the result to my dad.

In case it’s not clear (guffaw), it’s a celtic knot formed by three interwoven cats.

Thanks for popping by