Author: Ellen Bell

There is some, though it is slow. For instance I managed to change my bed sheets this morning. Usually a simple if time-consuming task, it takes longer with a bad arm and sore shoulder, but I did it. But I was too tired to walk before breakfast – we shall walk together instead in the sunshine. I missed it though (though I didn’t miss the struggle with putting socks on – why are the simplest things rendered virtually impossible?) I keep asking myself what can I learn from this? Find your own happiness, Mrs Dashwood said to Edward Ferrars in Sense & Sensibility. For it is there, waiting to be found, in everything we do, say and think. A quiet day today now that my article is written. I am tired, I confess. And sitting reading in the sun yesterday was a delight. Let it heal. And soon.

I try to detach myself from it. I remember doing the same, or at least trying to do the same 33 years ago today between 11.00 am and 4.16 pm. What a wealth of life has been lived since then. It hurts, still. As does my shoulder and my arm. An aching, rather than a pain, a dull, insistence of discomfort. It makes me cross and I am sorry for it.

There is a row of rabbits on a window shelf in a house along North Parade. They are toy rabbits, obviously and they have their backs to me as I walk past. A little line of them, in pastel colours. Cute and soppy as they are they give me a little fillip of joy.

It is getting better, I can do a few more things, like wrap a towel around my wet hair as I did this morning, but it is slow, slower than I would like and it aches. I ache. My whole body aches but so be it. Others have it worse, think of those dying of Covid in India, of those killed and injured in Mexico and that precious woman still in prison in Iran. I have nothing to complain of, I am mending. Will they?

And what kindness and care he has shown me throughout. And I being so snappy with discomfort. Onwards. Work to do. Let the words flow.

It’s wild out there. I did walk, though tentatively. Gates were bashing open and closed, pub and shop signs clanged and recycle bags full of rubbish were being blown forward rolling up the road. It is both alarming and exhilarating to be out in such wind. I watched as loose sheets of newspaper aped seagulls and flapped upwards taking flight. I wonder how my sweet peas are. I feel like I have abandoned them, but to watch them die off, one by one after all my careful nurturing was painful. Will they cling on? I hurt for them.

And then there is my hand. My arm is getting better but my hand is black. Well, at least up to my knuckles. The blood had clearly travelled downwards leaving my palm looking like a piebald or a dark and white chocolate block of ice-cream. Is that what it reminds me of? I’ve been trying to remember – was it Walls’ Chocolate and Vanilla?

Back to proper work today with my first interview. I will be glad of the distraction from the aching and my consequent crossness. He is very forbearing. Always.

I walked this morning, alone in the dark, for the first time since I fell. I am slow but oh it was good to get out into that cacophony of birdsong once more. I shan’t write much, I still need to rest my arm and I’m doing too much already. Suffice to say, it is good to be back.

I tripped and fell on my arm. I can’t use it. BUGGER.

I’d forgotten that they were going to re-air her Desert Island Discs. It was an old one for Roy Plumley was hosting it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her voice before. She sounded as I’d imagined, slightly reserved, a Queen’s English voice with her sentences a little clipped. She asked for a case of white wine, German, I think, as her luxury. I forget her book. I liked her. I felt safe with her. She said she wrote in the mornings. If I manage two pages on my typewriter I am happy, she said.

Was I unkind to him yesterday? I told him of it. I smell too. We all do. I’m a little out of sorts. She said that this full moon would be a challenge. Or am I blaming it for my bad behaviour. Another beautiful morning. Fridays are bitty days, I struggle with them. No stretch of time to achieve anything worthy. So be it. What did he say? Accept more, expect less. Wise words, my love. Wise words.

We think it has something to do with his breathing through his mouth, either way whenever he eats there is this profusion of flatulence. And I, having this strong sense of smell (which appears to be getting stronger), find it rather a challenge. I can’t help it, he says. And I know he can’t. It’s just the stink of it that I object to. A skunk. I’m living with a skunk. I skunk I love, nevertheless. And then there is the sniffing. Like an old dog, sniffs. One of his nostrils is blocked, so he sniffs to get relief. The snoring is less of an issue, for the moment. You see, sometimes I have to get it out – all those niggly objections. Ah, but would you be without him? I hear you ask. No, not ever. I can hold my nose and block my ears. There are always ways round it (I burn essential oils and light candles against the noisome odours). But to be without his kindness, his generosity, his care, his wisdom, his patience, his thoughtfulness, his love – no not ever. Not yet. Please.

I heard a ticking yesterday, that is after I turned off my laptop and the noise of voices. It was the clock on the wall in my studio. A quiet tick, almost imperceptible. I’m glad that I’ve found it.

Will I give myself some peace today?

I’m always thinking about my work, it fills my head. I’m on a quest to solve things but also to get that click internally that tells me I’m onto something – that I’ve made, written or performed something magical. It’s a rare sensation but the desire for it drives me and my thoughts onward. Little things spark me like the label on my pillow with ‘carelessness causes fire’ writ large in red. Perhaps I could do something with that, I thought. I look for external clues, as if they are laying in wait for me to discover them. Is it like that? Or is this day-to-day just doing what it is really about? It takes so long to finish things, to see my ideas come to fruition, that I had better enjoy the getting there. And I do, mostly. That is if I can allow myself to do so. It is OK to be this, this mish-mash of emotions, fears, doubts and certainties. I think about making bespoke gifts, a gift of work like Richard Strauss making an offering of a piece of music to the city of Vienna when they awarded him the Beethoven Prize. My range, my scope is a small one these days. I think of individuals rather than the crowd. And that is fine, isn’t it?

I forgot about you. And it isn’t true that I’ve nothing to say, there is always something but because I’d forgotten I’m ready to work now. So I’ll be brief.

There was no one about as I walked this morning, my hips and legs aching and not moving fluidly. Do you get that some mornings? I felt like an old dog. I accuse him of being one too when he gets up from his chair. Bless him. Where’s the tea towel? he demanded this morning as we washed up after breakfast. On your shoulder, I replied. It was nice to laugh like that, together. It’s not going to get any better, he said. No. And who cares.