The blackberries on the bramble bush down the lane towards the ‘coll’ field will be ripe soon. I want to pick some for my breakfast, they taste of childhood, of warm late August days before the return to school, so different from the shop bought ones. He thinks others will get there first. Really? Do people still go blackberry picking? How nice.

The flat smells of fried butter, just like it does when I make him pancakes. It was croque monsieur last night. The fire alarm went off in the early hours in the block opposite. I could see them all out there in their smalls, in the rain, waiting for the clamour to die down. Did someone burn the toast? Were they cross?

I dreamt during my afternoon nap that we were both sitting upstairs having supper. In my dream I told myself that this was a dream and that I was really downstairs lying next to him. I made myself return to my body and woke up.

The wind was wild. The flagpoles along the Prom leant and bent with it. The noise down by the harbour was almost mythical. A screaming through the hollows, a rattling of rigging and bashing of boats against buffers. It jars, it stirs one up, making one edgy and nervous. And yet it is also quite magnificent. The sea was alive with it. Back in town a lad slept outside Wetherspoons Free House. A police car flashing blue overtook a car on Mill Street who had pulled in to let him pass.

I am tense about writing. I make too much of my fears. Just do it. Just write it. Get it down. Simple. A thousand a day. That’s all.  

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.