The Spark of an Idea: Forging Memories, Tiny Anvils and All It was a proper dreich afternoon, you know the kind where the clouds hang so low they almost tickle your nose, and a gentle drizzle just seems to set the world in a pensive mood. I was in my workshop, the radio humming some old rock tunes, a mug of builders' tea steaming beside me, and my hands, as always, were busy. I was fiddling with a particularly stubborn piece of silver, trying to coax it into a curve it just wasn't keen on taking, when my gaze drifted across to the far corner of the room. There it stood, my trusty old anvil, th...
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