It was in my dream. It was huge. A man was supposed to be taking care of it. I thought he’d got rid of it but it was lying dormant, but still alive. He put it in a cupboard, out of the way. My fear, my anxiety about a threat of some kind the online dream dictionaries say. Possibly. Where do we start?

It was her birthday yesterday. I didn’t know. I am out of it there. We work, exist on different planets. It is OK, I don’t really mind. I have my reading.

Zadie Smith spoke briefly about writing this morning, making comparisons between it and dancing. She quoted someone, I can’t remember who, who said that we shouldn’t judge the content of what we write, or responsibility is to just get it down. I paraphrase, of course, but it make sense. I liked it.

The doings of the radio-controlled clock in the kitchen threw me. It always starts whirring around at about 3.00 am turning to midnight then righting itself. Today it did the usual but spun forward maniacally to 4.30 am. So far it is stuck one hour and half ahead of time. Is it on the blink? It is his not ours. It may have to be consigned to a cupboard and replaced. I am a little shifted off course as a result. The hornet did it too. Busy day today. So be it. I think of them that little family. She seems so happy. I am glad. It is all I can wish for her.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.