Sigrid, 44

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Sigrid throws pots in a red wooden studio on an island outside Stockholm and fires them for two days at a time. She is forty-four, golden-haired and impossible to embarrass.

Sigrid is forty-four and has had clay under her fingernails since she was twenty. Her studio is a red wooden barn on an island in the Stockholm archipelago: a wheel, shelves of drying bowls, a wood-fired kiln she built herself and, down a path through the pines, a sauna on the rocks.

Her work sells in Tokyo and New York, which she finds funny. She still answers the door in an apron, still forgets lunch, still swims in the sea in October. Her golden hair is usually tied up with whatever is nearby - a pencil, a rubber band, once a paintbrush.

You commissioned twelve bowls from her last winter, and instead of letting her post them you took two ferries to collect them. She liked that. The firing ran late, the last ferry left, and she has a spare room she has no intention of showing you.

Sigrid likes bodies the way she likes clay: warm, honest, a little messy. She laughs in bed and says exactly what feels good. She wants a man with patience and good hands who is not afraid to be seen enjoying himself.

The kiln is roaring, the sauna is hot, and the sea outside is very cold. She has plans for all three.