He came home with damsons and gooseberries. I was cock-a-hoop. I love soft fruits. I love them stewed. No sugar, just water. I love their tartness, that alive-ness on the tongue and in the back of the throat. He is a star. And just when she told him the ‘fruits were over’. See.

A rain shower. And then another just now that has leaked water into one of my pictures. Two little puddles sitting in the bottom of the acrylic casing. Will it evaporate? My fault. Leaving the skylight window open. Taken by surprise by the downpour. He’s gone out in it nevertheless. We watch two of our neighbours return from their daily walk. He always strides ahead of her. She trails behind. There is no touching, no hand-holding. She knocked on our door once to ask if we could run the washing-machine a little later in the morning, that the noise was disturbing her. I was mortified. So sorry, I had no idea you could hear it. That was when we had the old machine that rattled away during the spin cycle, sounding like a something was going to explode. The new one is quieter. Would six be OK? I asked. She looked uncertain but hasn’t knocked since. How long did it take her to pluck up the courage to come round and say something?

There were  globes of multi-coloured fairy lights still lit behind one of the houses along South Marine this morning. They have built a small roof garden that looks down onto the harbour. The lights twirl around a wooden canopy. What a cheer in the dark morning.

I never what to write. Oh, I’d rather do anything but. Nevertheless, once I am in it the story will take me in, take me over. And I am curious where it will take me today. Coffee first. A bientot.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.