Today, as on most days, my creativity took many forms. Today, as on most days, they were forms that would not be considered high art.

I drew thumbprint butterflies in raspberry yoghurt on the kitchen table to amuse my daughter.

I made spiral patterns in her porridge with the squeezable honey as she guided my hands.

I made a dozen silly things out of plasticine, among them a carrot, a dinosaur, a pig, a tortoise, a snowman sporting a hat and scarf (“Pingu!” she exclaimed delightedly), a false nose, a strawberry, a rose.

I also squeezed in 30 selfish minutes of oil-pastel sketching – an eggbox, since you ask, for an EDM challenge – before she awoke from her afternoon nap.

The art is there … You just have to look with a somewhat creative eye to identify it as such.

This is what the two of us got up to a few afternoons ago. As you can see, M rejected the interesting shapes I had laboured to carve into a potato (I do not buy potatoes … this was a special purchase) in favour of the beautiful mess she could create with her own fingers. Apologies for the rollercoaster effect induced by the bizarrely-chosen angle of this photo: clearly a further attempt, on my part, to justify myself as an artist.

This is what Mummy produced, with cheap poster paint, as a souvenir of the afternoon. Thumbbugs.

Yes, say I. It is art.

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