It can happen. Louis Theroux talks of it on his new podcast during the lockdown. Petty quarrels. They boil up over nothing. Or perhaps not. I irritated him and that made him say what he did. Fair enough. I’d sunk again. Up one day down the next. And my lowness had manifested, as it usually does, into nitpicking. First it was his liberal use of flannels and then it was the bits of leaves and undergrowth he’d brought into the house under his shoes. Neither were important, as the Theroux’s consumption of the last of avocado wasn’t. And I kept trying to ‘make it better’ and failing miserably. Both of us trying to reasonable when we just didn’t feel that way. It ended up with my sitting alone on that pallet on our borrowed wasteland. I lay down and looked at the sky, and let the sun warm my face hoping all the while a bird wouldn’t pass by and shit on me. One did eventually but on my foot rather than my face. He came back out after about 20 minutes to say that he didn’t mean it. It wasn’t his fault, it was mine. It usually is. He is much more even-tempered than I. Much. I have a lot to do today so I will get on. Begin and it will feel less scary. I promise.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.