It can be so difficult to define what you do, especially when that kernel of an idea is also tangled up in the complexities of everyday life - catching the bus, earning a wage, being a parent, taking out the compost.

First and foremost I consider myself an artist - even if I don’t always manage to find time to produce ‘finished’ work, I am always scheming on something. But I also love making things that veer into the realm of practicality - like jewellery, or a bottle opener - and so sometimes I wonder if maybe the term artist isn’t sufficient. Tinkerer, journeyman, artisan - these are all terms that come to mind, but imply a level of proficiency or training that I feel I simply don’t possess. And to be honest, the word maker makes my skin crawl slightly these days - never to my knowledge has such an insufficient and unimaginative term gained such social traction.

More satisfying words that roll into my head include: juggler, fumbler, hermit, hoarder.

Or dreamer, scribbler, tight-rope walker.

And this makes me realise: perhaps what’s more important than a word to define us is the poetry that reminds us exactly why we’re here in the first place.