I don’t know him well. He was a flirtation. We both did it. It was light, trivial, a nothing but it gave me, and I believe him, a fillip. He even turned up at the same restaurant once after I’d told him a few days before that I was going there with a friend. What was that about? He there with his wife, and me with a girlfriend. We both sat on tables on the terrace – it was hot. We nodded to each other. I didn’t know what to make of it. He invaded my dream, out of the blue. We can have a cuddle, he said. And I knew he was waiting for me to join him in his bed. I wanted to but hesitated, taking a long time to appear. What about your wife? I asked. She’s dead, he said. It’s a good time. He had a girlfriend, who I also spoke to, but he implied it was not solid, not important to him. I wanted him. But I still hesitated. I even asked him if it would be OK. Or perhaps when I woke for a pee that was what I decided I would do. I kept returning to the dream – should I or shouldn’t I? The last few nights I’ve dreamt of lovers. Is it the moon? It is big, huge. I walked under its gleam. I love that. The dark is less sombre. A good walk. My legs are less heavy. The symptoms not so raging. Is it passing? Is it all an illusion? Was the consultant wrong?

He didn’t sleep well again last night but he is less miserable about it. For now the sun shines. Let it remain. Let it stay awhile.

Our kettle died this morning. It makes me sad when things die. I was fond of it. A lovely duck-egg blue with a plump bottom. Rest in my peace little kettle and thank you for the seven years you have given us. He will take it to the tip perhaps someone clever can resuscitate it. I hope so.

I’ve made a mistake in my sewing – the counting is awry. I’m not good at following patterns. It’s always been so. I am not going to unpick – no one would know – I will just adapt it. I’ve come on, in the past it would’ve thrown me berating myself for my incompetence. He would say you’re learning. It’s OK. And it is. To be perfectly imperfectly human is OK. OK?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.