Author: Ellen Bell

I know nothing about him, apart from the fact that he used to work for a telecomms company and has two young children who come and visit him at weekends, though it has been awhile since I’ve seen them arrive or leave. I passed him yesterday. His hoodie hood was down, as it usually is when I see him. We didn’t greet each other. I am led by his reticence. Perhaps I shouldn’t be but he always strikes me as either a shy or sad man who wishes to be left alone. I can see his flat from mine and when I look early on his lights are often on. He sleeps badly, I think. I try to not make up stories about him, it feels an act of intrusion. We call him ‘Smoker 2.’ And yes, I do think he is sad.

It was worrying the trees before I left growing fiercer as I walked. There’s something marvellous about being out in it. It’s a confirmation of aliveness of life, of being part of something bigger than just oneself. It’s the force of it, I think, it is without care, not mindful of what it does and to whom. I like that.

The radio presenter announced that it was ‘make your bed day’, adding that there are all sorts of good reasons for doing it, not least that it could be seen as the first ‘achievement’ of the morning. I always feel better when my bed is made. It establishes an order, neatens up the mess both internally and externally left by sleep. And how I love a crisp, fresh, neatly-made bed.

I bagged up some clothes for the charity shop early this morning. I fold them neatly, wanting whoever eventually buys or receives them to find comfort in them. I feel better for such shedding. I like to have less rather than more. Always.

She gave up her royal privileges and her name and stepped back and then forward into a more prosaic life. Returning to her first love she became a music teacher in a primary school in Hull. It was a life of service that ended as she wished it, or so it seems. Perhaps I am being overly romantic. I hope it was. A good woman, I think. R.I.P.

He is wise and steady, where I am anxious and wavering. You’ve just got to live it, see it out. Those days. those hours. I am blessed. I know this. With so much. And because I am so blessed, that is, there is food and warmth and shelter and meaningful work, I have time to think like this. And dream and hope. And yet there is still greyness and disappointment. I just have to keep on, keeping on. That’s all. Until my rest.

They said on the news that one thousand people crossed The Channel on small boats yesterday. Is it a flood? It is hard to ingest such information amidst the fear generated by the right wing media and political parties. There must be a calm, intelligent way of managing this need to seek political asylum and a better life. Can we not talk about it rationally and come up with some long term peaceable solutions? Please.

He likes to do things for me, to solve my problems, if he can. It can make him a little irritable if this solving of problems doesn’t quite go to plan. An irritability that is usually projected onto me. I understand this trait better now. It comes from a generous spirit, a wish to give, to make things alright. And I love him for it.

And I am, fond of her. I want her to feel held, to know that she is thought about, and remembered by those who are not quite her family but have shared part of a life, brought together by a marriage that came later, when we were full grown. I have grown fond over the years. We have both mellowed and much has been experienced. I wish her well. Always.

I called him. He sounded less care-worn. He told me that she’d gone into a home to give him some respite. Is she still there? I asked. Yes, he said, she’s stayed there. It was getting too much for him, he said. And other the other avenues they tried hadn’t worked out. She didn’t resist, apparently. But she’s fading faster.