It was so distinct. I saw the snow, the footprints through it. It was an immense vista, it seemed as if I was flying above it, looking down. And moving fast, covering ground. I saw the Pergyl in snow, covered, so much so that I couldn’t make out the end. A dream landscape. It was in my dream. Wintery. And then beyond more land, more snow but with patches of green coming through. It was beautiful. A people-less scape, wild open, treeless. What it portends, if anything, I cannot say.

He was perturbed. The unsettled nature of the weather unsettled him. It was warm when I walked, too hot for all the gear I had on. Should he put shorts on or jeans, should he take an umbrella, should he put on waterproofs, and what shoes? He was agitated, poor lamb. It isn’t personal, it’s just weather.

My legs are swollen again today, it’s like walking with tree trunks for thighs, no give, no flexibility. He suggests changing the drugs. Ah, not again. I am weary of it. Shall I go to Lily for more of her strange potions? NO COFFEE and NO CHOCOLATE.

I’ve started to re-read Mansfield Park. It is a joy to re-encounter. I love the references to sewing, and how the work the characters choose to do so perfectly reflects their status, station and pecuniary needs. Such as with the lady of the house: ‘Lady Bertram was a woman who spent her days sitting, nicely dressed on a sopha, doing some long piece of needlework, of little use and no beauty.’ Whether Austen means Lady B or the embroidery she is working is of little use of beauty I cannot be sure. It wobbled me reading this. My resolve is always so easily shaken. But I love how the needlework is a manifestation of what she stands for. Languorous idleness of no use or ornament. (And note the spelling of ‘sofa’ as ‘sopha’ – a new one on me. )

Town was full of what I can only imagine to be freshers. They look young enough. Virtually every bench along the Prom was occupied by couples canoodling. And vomit spattered the pavements. It is to be expected, I suppose. The seagulls, normally the bovver boys of the Prom have been eclipsed.

Here comes the rain.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.