The warmth of the nights seems to increase the headiness of the perfume emanating from the shrubs and flowers. The elderflower bushes on St David’s Road and the on North Road are particularly pungent. Gorgeous. I love it. I could lose myself in┬átheir aroma. Just like the jasmine in Spain. Stunning. I drink it in. I plan my walking route around it when I’m there. The tree at the end of the road, then the one in Capistrano and then later, nearer town the one on the corner by the Asian restaurant. The smell roots me, lifts me, lessens the fear. A comfort. Smells have always been a comfort.

I remembered a little of my dream yesterday. She was in it. I wanted to feed her. She was tired and wanted to get back to the baby. Eat, I said, wanting her to make herself strong. She relented in the end and began eating the rolls of unbuttered brown bread I’d put out for her. Is the bread a symbolic detail, seeing as I don’t eat it? Then she’d talked about a stall at the weekend. She was showing some of her work, jewellery I think. My sister, she said, wouldn’t be able to make it.

I walked with a stick this morning. It was to give me confidence. I can walk, but my foot is sore. I’ve pulled something, my gait has gone awry. I feel every step. Not a bad thing. I fastened a bag of ice to it when I came home. Attached with a rubber band. It soothed it.

A cat miaows below. A moaning sound. Well, a kind of moaning wail, with its mouth open. I can’t see it. The rooks of the roof sound agitated. Can they see it? Are they warning each other?

I’m lost again. London is over. I’ve written the piece. What now? Do I finish the tapestries? Then what? I don’t know what I would’ve done with myself if my life had been different. I’m an artist and writer, it is natural to me to make, to respond to my ideas, to produce. But I have other qualities too. I like order, I like to solve problems. And I like to earn my keep. What else can I do but accept what is? This is what I am, I must make the best of it. And cherish the details.

I’ve finished the two commissions and got low over it. I couldn’t give them all they asked for and now I wait for his yea or nay. A pot-boiler. They are pot-boilers but I still want to do the best I can.

The rooks have gone silent.

A man was playing a guitar and singing by the shelter on the Prom this morning. He didn’t stop when I walked past. A few people wandered about. A tall boy with extremely long legs was sitting on a bench just up from Pier Pressure eating fried chicken from a box. He raised his head to look at me but continued eating.

Another lovely morning. What a boon. A gentle day today. All I can do is wait to see if he is happy. Work offers sessions only to cancel them again. So be it. Can I accept it? Can I just yield to the see-saw of it all. And trust?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.