Two students walked ahead of me along Llanbadarn Road, arms linked. A girl and a boy. He was talking and she was giggling her encouragement. It’s the fucking haircut, he was saying. She laughed. I don’t think that I’m attractive, he continued, but…. I lost the rest as I overtook them. She was a tiny thing. Tall but tiny in waist and in rib. They have it all ahead of them. Careless, light.

A new poppet. A new darling. With lips like rosebuds. It is joy. He is joy.

I try to capture the sentences that come into my head just before I wake. Perhaps I will make a piece of work with them. The other morning it was:

‘I want to be the biggest shut in the world.’

The morning after it was:

‘My mother used to call it broom.’

A night of dreaming. I was travelling, variously in an airport and train station and I lost things, left things behind. Someone else’s coat. Then I was overhearing a conversation in a restaurant kitchen. The kitchen staff member, a man whom I knew was being bullied by his boss. It distressed me to witness it, he looked so downtrodden, I determined to talk to his boss.

Dave Sheasby’s play The Shifting of Sands (?) is delighting me. An elderly lady visits Cornwall reliving her time there at 18 working as a chambermaid at the Tregenna Hotel. He writes so poignantly and with such kind, compassionate wit.

I feel lighter today. I hold the new joy to me like a treasure.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.