I hear things on the radio and try to recall them. It isn’t always possible. My mind has become sieve-like. I have metamorphosed into a constant note-writer. The other day it was a quote from Mark Twain. It was in a play, so whether it is truth or not, who knows? When you see and adjective, he was supposed to have said, kill it. It stuck with me as I wrote yesterday. Do I need that word? Or that? Yet another judge to sit on my shoulder. But I agree, less is more. It’s just a confidence thing. Does that say enough? What is enough?

I overslept. My alarm may have gone off, I don’t know. I didn’t hear it. Half an hour late. So I had to shave it off my walk. So regimented. I know, I know. A brisk jaunt. Missing out the gentle bits, though in this weather, with all that rain it would have been hardly gentle. It is still lashing now. And the Prom is littered with stones and shale. A student was throwing up in a shop doorway when I walked past, my umbrella aloft.

And no bakery smells.

Cleaned the house, did my emails and stuff. It takes so long. And now some yoga then work. A bientot. x

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.