So the hare. The big one, 40 x 30, three blocks, black over a grey that took me four goes to get right. I sell it at markets for 180 and I've been grand with that for two years. Sunday last, a woman picks it up, loves it, asks the price, and I hear myself say ninety five. Out loud. To her face.

I don't know what happened. She had the look of someone who was going to buy it and I got excited and knocked the guts out of my own price. She paid, she was delighted, she's probably on the wall with it this minute and fair play to her. But I stood there after doing the sums. Paper, ink, the lino, four proofs I destroyed, and about nine hours of carving, and I'd just handed over a tenner an hour for the privilege.

The thing that's actually wrecking my head is she'll tell people. And then someone else comes up to the stall next month and says sure your woman got one for ninety five. And I've no answer for that except to look at my boots.

I know what the sensible thing is. I know the price is the price and the exception is the exception. But I'm not a shop, I'm a fella at a table hoping people like the hare, and the hoping keeps undercutting the pricing.