Evening Class

Sally Stackhouse | Stories
photo by Alex Jones on Unsplash


Evening Class


Sally Stackhouse


Ellen looked around the room, there wasn’t anybody else with grey hair in sight.  She sighed inwardly, took a deep breath, squared her shoulders and walked into the class.  

The tutor introduced herself to everyone, smiling gently at Ellen.  She explained that this first evening class was to go over the basics of pottery making.  She acknowledged that some people were totally new to this concept of using clay (another gentle look over at Ellen).  She hoped that by the end of the six-week course, people would sign up for the intermediary class.  

A spotty-faced, callous youth, called out, ‘when can I build a chimney?’

There were a couple of giggles but more embarrassed silences from most of the group.  Ellen shuddered in disbelief, what had she let herself in for?  

The class settled down and although Ellen tried to concentrate, her attention kept wandering to the young lady sitting in front of her.  Every time she nodded her head in agreement at what the tutor was explaining her pony tailed swayed to and fro.

Sharon, the tutor, exclaimed sharply.  ‘Oh, my goodness, I’ve totally forgotten to get you all to sign the disclaimer.’  She quickly passed round the official looking document. Ellen scanned it, a generic piece of writing, to cover the school against any accidents and liabilities etc.  she signed on the dotted line, passing it forward through the other students to the front. 

At the end of the class Ellen felt quite proud of herself, she’d managed to execute a piece of pottery quite well she thought.  

The following week, after the clay had been fired and placed on the table with people’s names marking their pieces, Ellen didn’t feel quite so proud.  Yes, it was a piece of pottery but only somebody who loved her dearly would allow it be on display on the mantlepiece.  It wouldn’t be her husband who always called a spade a spade.  

Oh well, perhaps she could find another hobby to enjoy she didn’t think pottery classes were going to be her ‘third-age’ career.  She would scan the prospectus and see if she could join another class.

Oh look, under Crafts there was something called pyrography which looked very interesting.  She was sure there was some old wood lying around in the shed.  Now all she had to do was buy all the paraphernalia that would be needed.  Wait till she told hubby when she got home! 

Word count: 446


Similar Posts