He inserts Water Music into the player, a supposed inspiration, before handing me a slab of clay. I take the length of wire, slice the earth in two, and slam it on the table. Cut, roll. The wire hums with creativity. The clay is slippery to my touch. In one corner of the room, the kiln chuffs out heat. Beads of perspiration drip from my brow, adding to the mix. I mould and push, urging the argil to take shape. “Shall I open the door?” he suggests. Engrossed in my task I nod.

A train rattles past, the 6.33 to Toorak. It is cooler now but the screeching wheels set my teeth on edge. My mind becomes laden with commuter sounds, the sight of tired men hefting briefcases. I sit back, let myself be lulled by Handel.

summer evening
five pebbles clenched
within my fist