I know these things aren’t personal, how can they be? These fraudsters don’t know me, they just take a chance. And the amount was small, relatively, just a monthly drip drip that I was sure to overlook and I did for a couple of months. It churned me up when I did realise what had happened. First you feel so foolish then you feel abused, invaded. And it took so long to get through to speak to someone. Initially there is that slow, sterile on-line chat to deal followed by the endless wait on the phone. In the end a warm voice answered, a warm kindly voice and all has been taken care of, but I do feel silly, and a little ticked-off by myself and that imaginary panel of judges sitting on my shoulder for not noticing it sooner. Was that their intention, that I wouldn’t miss it? Well that’s them stymied now. Anyway all that meant that I didn’t have the peaceful day I’d intended. Isn’t that part of the frustration, that things come in unbidden, unexpected and shake up one’s plans? Does that mean we shouldn’t make plans? Is it better to be unprepared for the day, open to anything? And yet, structure, however impermanent holds us in place, helps us to believe in an order, that there is a sense to this chaos. And the worst thing is we rowed. We rarely shout at each other like that. It was horrible, short but horrible. It makes me weep, I need his goodness, and his belief in mine to function. All was settled soon, but the residue, that trace of rancour remains.

Another beautiful day is promised, though the wind, they say will pick up. I shall so sew today while I can before the next tranche of work comes in. I thought about work as I lay in bed waiting for sleep trying to find a peaceful place with it. And it came in that thought, that sense that when I am working, writing in particular, there is pleasure in ‘sitting with it’, even before the blank page has been resolved, of giving myself to it. And that was enough to calm me. The same can be applied to art work and even to my BBC work. It’s about yielding to it, succumbing and seeing what comes. For it always does. Always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.