I thought that there was no joy but as I began to write about it I realised that there was. I can’t access it. I can’t find it. It is locked in. All that precious light, all that gold. Perhaps that was it, touching that all gold.

He is the same. He is feeling the same greyness. No perhaps it is not greyness with him but a wobbly fearfulness. He smells different when he is in his fog. It’s a kind of acid smell, a reek. It comes through his pores. I want it to go away, it wrinkles my nose. I try to shut it out. But it won’t do. It is part of him and part of what we have together. Let it be, I say to him. I must say it to myself too.

They’ve taken away the deckchairs from the Prom’s sandpit. There are just two channels where they had been. The sand is all messed up. The scene is a dismal one. No hope of sun, no hope of playtime.

The wind was wild last night. A manic howling, like a dervish, I had to sleep with my window shut. I don’t like it. I want air. But I slept anyway.

Everything keeps changing, even the format for this blog. Aagh, I’m always have to learn new things, sometimes I just long to stand still, and let it ease over me.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.