Hands, Sweet Peas and Gates

It’s wild out there. I did walk, though tentatively. Gates were bashing open and closed, pub and shop signs clanged and recycle bags full of rubbish were being blown forward rolling up the road. It is both alarming and exhilarating to be out in such wind. I watched as loose sheets of newspaper aped seagulls and flapped upwards taking flight. I wonder how my sweet peas are. I feel like I have abandoned them, but to watch them die off, one by one after all my careful nurturing was painful. Will they cling on? I hurt for them.

And then there is my hand. My arm is getting better but my hand is black. Well, at least up to my knuckles. The blood had clearly travelled downwards leaving my palm looking like a piebald or a dark and white chocolate block of ice-cream. Is that what it reminds me of? I’ve been trying to remember – was it Walls’ Chocolate and Vanilla?

Back to proper work today with my first interview. I will be glad of the distraction from the aching and my consequent crossness. He is very forbearing. Always.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.