My mother and I were both involved. Both of us framed. Both victims of a frame-up. But separately. We’d eaten at a restaurant. We weren’t together. She’d gone and I’d gone on different occasions. And incriminating cash had been planted on us. Loads of it. All in notes. The money was evidence that we’d acted illegally. But we were innocent. I think it was to do with prostitution. If the money was found we would be branded as prostitutes. We knew the money was there in our things but we couldn’t get rid of it. And we needed to travel, to go somewhere and we’d be checked. The dream involved looking in cupboards, dark corners. It was about fear. Fear of the inevitable but held off, suspended. I woke before any resolution.

No rain again this morning. The sea was a gentle lapping. I thought about how else I might earn my living. I want to stop that job. The thought of returning sinks my stomach. I’ve eaten too much muesli, my gut is heavy with it. Let it be. I thought about making work to order. How would that feel? I thought about what I would like to illustrate – Lear or Peake, perhaps? Is making less anxious-making than writing? I’ve also got some ideas for a series of short stories about sewing. And I want to finish the tapestry. All these half-finished tasks. It’s unneat. She is rarely effusive when she gets the work. That’s OK. Isn’t it?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.