I’ve struggled to sleep these last few nights. The day before yesterday I tried reading a William Trevor short story thinking it might help to make me tired. It did the opposite, the beautiful succinctness of the writing stirred me up.

He bought the radio for me, did I tell you? It is now on my table all washed clean as I’d dreamt it would be. And it’s perfect. The tone is good and the dial was on my station, the one I listen to in the mornings. Thank you. It was unnecessary, I have umpteen radios but it is a pleasure nonetheless. It’s an objet d’art, he told the woman in the shop. Well, she said.

I saw two baby gulls as I walked. One was lying in the road, taking a nap, I think, all tucked up and neat. The other was on the Prom, its feathers ruffled, looking lost. They seem so bleak, so alone, so abandoned.

It’s raining outside so he won’t walk. In fact I can hear him snoring now. I, on the other hand have work to do. More anon.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.