So the brother-in-law asked for a hare print for his new kitchen. Sure it's family, I said 60, that'll cover the paper and the frame and we're all happy.

That was last March. It's now a hare, a heron behind it, a bit of bog cotton in the corner, and I've recut the block twice because the first one went too fussy. He keeps texting me photos of the wall it's going on. The wall is lovely. I want to burn it.

The 60 quid was gone on the frame on day one, and I've maybe 30 hours into the block at this stage. That's 2 euro an hour, which is a rate you'd be embarrassed to pay a child.

And here's the thing that actually eats at me, more than the money. He's a good man and he'd have paid 300 without blinking, because he thinks that's what a proper print costs. I'm the one who said 60. I set the number and then spent a year resenting a number I invented.

I've stopped doing the family rate. Now I say the real figure, deadpan, and if it's family they get it for the real figure and a pint, and if they don't want it that's grand too. Nobody has flinched yet. Not one. Turns out the flinching was always mine.