It’s hard to pin it down exactly. It’s a feeling, a sensation of warmth, of nostalgia, of cosiness and it comes upon me unawares. It’s associated with this time of the year, or at least memories of this time when everything contributes to a general sense of belonging, of safety, of cosiness. I love it when it comes and I am lifted. It makes me a little sad, however, that he is not feeling the same thing. He is lower today, I can always know it. He is quieter, a little withdrawn. He calls it struggling. And I know he is disappointed. He wanted a cure for it. To have it magicked away. It is lifting. He is getting lighter. He doesn’t see this. He forgets the better days when a not so light day is upon him. He is so like her. She was the same. Blithe as could be when all was forgotten but assailed when it wasn’t. I just have to be kind. Always.

I slept deeply, cocooned as I was in bed. I went to sleep thinking of those sleeping in the shelter on the Prom and how cold they must be. There was just one figure in a sleeping bag as I walked past this morning. Bless him. Is that the dapper me he told me of. What has happened that he is so without? He has a partner, apparently and they meet up during the day. May he find warmth and comfort.

I wrote but it needs work. I need to constantly adjust my expectations of what my paid writing work will bring me. It is work-a-day stuff, no great falutin’ expressions required, just a straight tell it like it is. It is enough. And I am grateful for the employment.

A gentle morning. A few streaks of clouds but non-moving, a blue-grey that stripes against pink. Careful on the Pergyl, I tell him, it might be slippy. Winter is coming. First outing for my impossibly expensive coat. Off to work soon. Two this morning. Then back to editing. Then rest. My finger is less virulent. Save the docs for another day.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.