I've been meaning to get my paints out for months. Passers-by may have got the impression that I have, may have noticed that I recently applied a coat of grey eggshell to my front door, and I touched up the external frames with white gloss. But I did these things in adult mode, thinking about weathering and rot. Getting my paints out means something else. It's what I do when I want to take my inner child out to play (I Paint A Canvas).
Last week, I met my goddaughter at the Emma Bridgewater factory in Stoke. She'd booked us into the painting studio so we had a table for two and a couple of hours. There was a choice of ready-made pots to paint, a wheel of colours, sponges, brushes, pencils and a sander for rubbing out mistakes.
I was choosing from the ready-cut sponge shapes when I let myself be drawn to the dinosaurs. I chose the one that looks like a brontosaurus: the one I grew up with but now have found out never existed.
Dinosaurs weren't in my plan, nor was green, not that I had a plan. Somewhere in the back of my mind was lodged the thought that I'm not the target market for dinosaurs. Being in the easy company of Ruth, an early years teacher, made all the difference. She was encouraging about dinosaurs - no shape out of bounds - and her enthusiasm released my inner green thunder lizard.
Having started with the dino, representative for me of my elder son, the next choices were easy: musical notes, flowers, a swallow, bees and three cakes; symbols of our family sponged onto a French bowl.
All the while we were chatting, and Ruth was painting her pottery too. It looks amazing and I can't wait to see it once it's been fired. I can't tell you more, though, as it may become a present for someone. Mine's a present to myself: reminder of my children, myself as a child, the child I am still becoming.
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