Author: Ellen Bell

I don’t know. I’ve never really known what I’m meant to doing. With myself. With my work. With my life. Is it OK to still not know when one is nearing sixty? Perhaps the not knowing is part of life. I like working because it helps me map out my day. It feels worthy. I feel worthy, worthwhile.

I got a little cross yesterday. It took me a while to work out why. It’s the loss, the ending of the Austen course (just one more week). I felt bereft at the thought of it. Well, do another then, he said. But it’s not a simple as that. I took the course for a reason, to feed my tries at writing short stories. And this must be returned to. Else it hangs heavy in me. It’s been a joy, especially the close reading. I’ve learnt much. Now, soon, I must write.

For now I’ve other work to do. First a quick drawing of the sweet peas before they ‘go over’ as my mother-in-law used to say. Then I’ve things to map out for more samplers that I want to try. You see I don’t know but I still keep trying to find what it is I ought to know. Is it a hopeless quest?

Was it from a song that I heard when I was busy doing something else this morning? I think so. ‘Things don’t (or won’t) grow if you don’t bless them with your patience. I liked it. Blessing something with patience. I’d never thought of patience as a blessing to others before. I have little of it. But to see it as a gift that one can nurture and then bestow on others is different. Bless me with more of it. So that I can truly pay attention.

Half the housework done. A new regime, one half one day the other the next. It never feels good enough, but then what ever does. We do the best we can. Will there be more sweet peas this morning?

I told him about the mistake I’d made and about my plan to unpick it an redo it. I’d have to, he said. Yes, and so do I, though I’d rather forge ahead. I remember my mother telling me of her having to continually unpick her stitches at sewing school. I learn and that is what is important, the end result is secondary. And I can think as I do it, can’t I?

The flies returned. And I had to do another mass annihilation. I am sorry. As I am for those 99 people yet to be found in the 12 storey block in Miami. What a terror. I hope they are safe or it they are not that the end as quick. What can have caused it?

Another gloom of a day. Can we have the sun back please?

I did it. Well, they did it. It’s a haphazard affair with canes all awry and lop-sided but they did it. They grew and they have brought forth blooms. And they smell divine. I am inordinately gratified, grateful and pleased. Such a small thing but a wonder, nevertheless.

The sea was lapping this morning. The air heavy with moisture. A misty, misly rain is now falling. Midsummer’s Day Petroc Trelawney told us, as well as advising that there is to be a Honey Moon tonight. I shall look out for it but I suspect that, like this morning, there will be no moon visible at all, honey or no.

I dreamt of analysing Emma last night. Over and over it went in my head. A full moon kind of fixation.

A single fishing boat set out as I left the harbour. I saw its lights. Was it being skippered by the young man in sweatpants I spied through an ajar-ed door beneath the lifeboat office? What must it be like to be on the water at such a time, with just the sound of rock pipits and that lap lap lap.

There was a one-legged man in a wheelchair sitting outside the hotel just across from us yesterday. His wife deposited him there and went off shopping. He sat at a table reading a great fat paperback (like the kind you buy at airports). The waitress asked if he wanted a drink. No, thank you, he said, I’ve just had my breakfast. She left him to it. His wife returned about half an hour later with a paper and a few groceries. Plonking herself down in the chair next to him, she didn’t order either. Are they regulars? I pondered, as I waited for him to return from the loo. Does anyone say anything about their non-consumption or are they humoured?

It’s been resolved for the moment. It was such a worry last night. We shall see. Nothing from the BBC. How will that turn out, I wonder?

I’d forgotten how unpleasant it was.

You had your last screening in 2017, the girl in the reception (a glassed-in cubicle in the entrance to the raised up portacabin parked in Morrison’s car park) informed me. Though things were different inside. There were no other women waiting for a start. I was directed to a fold up seat in a corner and told to read the notice on the wall while I waited. Did you know that you can actually contract breast cancer from having a screening? Do you still want to go ahead? said another girl in the screening room. I was trying to work out her accent, was it Yorkshire or Newcastle? She was kind and as gentle as she could be as she man-handled my chest, ribs and back trying to get me into position. Screening can be uncomfortable and embarrassing, the notice had said. Yes. My poor little breasts squeezed between two pieces of hard, cold Perspex. It was most ungainly. Try to relax, she kept saying. Drop your shoulder, that’s it. Are you happy to continue? What can you do but see it through and try not to think about the radiation? The relief is good, when it is done.

They covered out windowsill. Tiny flies. Were they fruit flies? Such infestations always make me itch. I didn’t want to kill them but saw no choice. Left to their own devices the front hall would be riddled with them. So I washed them away. Bless them.

My sweet peas are near flowering. Gosh, I’m excited. I get a distinct whiff of their scent. What a joy!

There was a dead black bird on the pavement along North Road. It’s wings were all splayed out and its beak and eyes opened. It looked small. Was a fledgling? Everything was in tact. How had it died?

On the last count our neighbour has five bird feeders.

I can’t quite remember where I heard the phrase. It must’ve been something to do with Jane Austen for I am still immersed in her texts. It means sadness, taking on the mantel of grief, or sorrow. Draping oneself in willow, I suppose – the weeping willow often seen as a metaphor for depressed spirits. I love such things – such words, phrases that circle around my head like butterflies, some landing others passing me by.

I listened to the TED radio hour as I did yoga and prepared lunch. The focus was on joy. In one interview a conductor, I forget his name, talked about how he knew he’d done his job well when he could see the orchestra members’ eyes shining. I think teachers should share the same expectation. They too should see their pupils’ eyes shining. Did I? I think so.

The noise of the seagulls in town this morning was a cacophony.

I did it. I got myself up there on my head and on my own. I’d refused his help. And then thought I would just put myself in position and see what happened. And I did it. It was lovely. Perhaps it may be tricky to do it again. But at least I now know that it can be done. It’s been 8 weeks since I fell. What a time it takes to recover. And do we ever really fully do so?

Rows of fluffy clouds blanket the sky. Is it a mackerel sky? he asked.

I woke from several dreams. In one a woman told me of a top flat that was available to rent. It would be too small for the two of us but she told me of it anyway. It was part of a main house and you had to pass through their living quarters to get to it. You have to go through a picture frame, she said.

In another dream a disembodied voice told me to ‘listen’. To what? I asked when I woke.

I’ve been able to do them for years. And, if I may say it, gracefully. I love being upside down like that. I feel strong and lithe. Now my body has either forgotten how to do them or is scared. Will my fractured shoulder be able to take the weight of me? Is that the problem, my fear of collapsing? I just don’t know. I assume the usual position and my legs won’t lift. It’s a small grief, but a grief nonetheless. He says he will help me by lifting my legs up and holding them there. Will that help? Will it boost my confidence? Can he in fact do it? Will we bicker?

Parties are going on around town. I think it is because students are getting ready to go. In Cambridge it will be May Ball season. Here it’s a more intimate affair. I hear them through open windows and see their lights one. One house along North Road had tons of flashing ones, like a mobile disco. Voices and baby seagull calls. The dark is alive with sounds.

He’d gone to the garage to take the car for its MOT and walking back he chanced upon two women who were lost. Ever the boy scout, he was delighted to assist. He told me about all this over lunch. And what else do you think happened? he asked. I don’t know, I said. They knew you? No. They told you didn’t look a day over forty? No. Anymore guesses? No, just tell me. Well, he said, one of the women said, I’m not coming on to you but you’ve got the most beautiful legs.’

Suffice to say it, he was and still is delighted.

I can see one of our neighbour’s balconies from my studio window. They have put out a profusion of pots and bird feeders. Birds seem to come from all over to feed. There are sparrows, tits, collared doves and black birds. I love to watch them. They eat and eat, even in this early summer when there must be plenty of ‘real’ food for them. I love the scurrying and seeing the feeders still swinging long after they have left.