Manchester Tart

I sew in the afternoons and listen to Classic FM as I do so. During the requests yesterday a woman called in saying that as a recently retired midwife she was in her kitchen making a Manchester Tart for the first time, as it reminded her of her school days. I’ve no idea what a Manchester Tart is, though I spent much of my youth living there. She talked about not knowing what to do with all the left over egg whites, so perhaps it’s a kind of custard tart. I love the cosiness of hearing their voices and pleas for certain pieces of music, though the constant breaking for adverts is a nuisance (I switch over to Heart 70s for a few minutes for a sing-a-long).

I’m making a drawing a day. I try to do too much and often feel that I don’t give enough of myself to each separate thing, but heigh-ho. And I’m learning to look again. I can feel it when my concentration ebbs. I drew small things. Today I will have another go at the pollarded trees, if it stays fine. But this morning I am to read (well research really, for my short story, I have set the bar high. Good thing or bad?).

There was another lorry at the harbour this morning. All its lights were off. Falfish was emblazoned on its side. From Falmouth no doubt. All the way from Cornwall. Isn’t it a bit like taking coals to Newcastle? Or perhaps not these days with all the coalmines now defunct. But what fish can we have here that they don’t have there?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.