Treacherous was the word that the postman used all those years ago in Cambridge – meaning it was it was too treacherous to walk the pavements delivering the post. It was treacherous this morning. He left me a note imploring me to take care. I did. I walked like a old woman, inching my way down the little hill to St David’s Road. I hate it. I like to stride to get my blood going. I swear under my breath as I lose my footing. It’s no good, it’s no walk all that ‘gingering’. Perhaps it will be better tomorrow.

I dreamt that I was on a dark road and I fell through some ice. It was deep and I fell into cold, cold water, up to my waist and as I fell I anticipated the sensation and of having to walk home wet and frozen through. A schoolteacher took me into an empty classroom and offered to drive me home. It was like a farmstead and the classrooms were in the barns. She was kind, warm and beautiful. The rest has gone from me.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.