Dylan, Meat, Trying to Find Him, Flotsam, Doorbell and Spilling Red Wine

It’s fixed. The boiler is fixed. He came, that wonderful Welsh man with a name like a famous American singer songwriter (but pronounced differently being Welsh), and fixed it. Shouldn’t be a problem, he said, a common fault. And it’s done. My bath was a joy this morning and the house is toasty again. Thank you, thank you you dark haired youth.

Dreams. The moon is no longer wholly full but the night images are still rampant. I was trying to find him. He was in a hotel but I couldn’t remember it’s name or its location. I went to a cafe and ordered breakfast but it was ostensibly a plate of meat. I tried to eat the rest but couldn’t and took it to the waitress at the desk to explain that I was vegan. We laughed about it, she was very forgiving and offered me a refund. Oh, I couldn’t, I said. Then I was trying to find him again. Sometimes I was with him, other times we were speaking on the phone. What was the name of where he was? I knew it. Then my father was there. I have a heart condition, he said. And a daughter of an acquaintance had given me some red wine. I didn’t want it. Then I spilled it and remembered a dream from the previous night (while I was still dreaming) of a purple stain and there it was. She poured me another gigantic glass. It’s low calorie, she said. And then my line manager was there telling me about her house next door to me with its floor to ceiling window. So much. Excuse my relaying it all here – I just want to remember. He pays no heed to his, for me they tell me things. Sometimes much, much later.

The big tides have thrown sand on the Prom and bits of flotsam lie on the beach, a child’s rucksack and a huge branch. Three lads stood talking, hoodies up, outside the bandstand.

The doorbell that fell off when the Asian girls took the flat round the corner still lies on the ground outside two months later.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.