ellen bell

We think it has something to do with his breathing through his mouth, either way whenever he eats there is this profusion of flatulence. And I, having this strong sense of smell (which appears to be getting stronger), find it rather a challenge. I can’t help it, he says. And I know he can’t. It’s just the stink of it that I object to. A skunk. I’m living with a skunk. I skunk I love, nevertheless. And then there is the sniffing. Like an old dog, sniffs. One of his nostrils is blocked, so he sniffs to get relief. The snoring is less of an issue, for the moment. You see, sometimes I have to get it out – all those niggly objections. Ah, but would you be without him? I hear you ask. No, not ever. I can hold my nose and block my ears. There are always ways round it (I burn essential oils and light candles against the noisome odours). But to be without his kindness, his generosity, his care, his wisdom, his patience, his thoughtfulness, his love – no not ever. Not yet. Please.

I heard a ticking yesterday, that is after I turned off my laptop and the noise of voices. It was the clock on the wall in my studio. A quiet tick, almost imperceptible. I’m glad that I’ve found it.

Will I give myself some peace today?

I’m always thinking about my work, it fills my head. I’m on a quest to solve things but also to get that click internally that tells me I’m onto something – that I’ve made, written or performed something magical. It’s a rare sensation but the desire for it drives me and my thoughts onward. Little things spark me like the label on my pillow with ‘carelessness causes fire’ writ large in red. Perhaps I could do something with that, I thought. I look for external clues, as if they are laying in wait for me to discover them. Is it like that? Or is this day-to-day just doing what it is really about? It takes so long to finish things, to see my ideas come to fruition, that I had better enjoy the getting there. And I do, mostly. That is if I can allow myself to do so. It is OK to be this, this mish-mash of emotions, fears, doubts and certainties. I think about making bespoke gifts, a gift of work like Richard Strauss making an offering of a piece of music to the city of Vienna when they awarded him the Beethoven Prize. My range, my scope is a small one these days. I think of individuals rather than the crowd. And that is fine, isn’t it?

I forgot about you. And it isn’t true that I’ve nothing to say, there is always something but because I’d forgotten I’m ready to work now. So I’ll be brief.

There was no one about as I walked this morning, my hips and legs aching and not moving fluidly. Do you get that some mornings? I felt like an old dog. I accuse him of being one too when he gets up from his chair. Bless him. Where’s the tea towel? he demanded this morning as we washed up after breakfast. On your shoulder, I replied. It was nice to laugh like that, together. It’s not going to get any better, he said. No. And who cares.

I catch Dr Mosley’s podcast One Good Thing on Radio 4 as I’m preparing lunch on a Sunday. Yesterday he was encouraging us take a regular cold shower. The idea horrifies me. I need warmth. I sit at my desk with two hot water bottles, not because I’m cold necessarily but they comfort me. And yet his argument was so convincing that I’ve been wracking my brains how to manage it. I don’t like showers. Could it be a cold bath instead? And if so, when? Before or after my warm one? I do the walking, and I eat fermented foods (his last two recommendations) – must I do them all?

I’d bought a series of small frames to frame my sewing trials with but they are not deep enough. It feels wasteful but I had to try. What to do with them? Well, yesterday I put an old postcard I had of Gwen John’s self portrait in a red tartan dress. How I love it. I’ve leant it against the window to hide the paint that is chipping away on the windowsill. It looks perfect. What a fillip it gave me. Such a small thing and yet so transformational. Joy comes in tiny packages, I think. The real stuff, anyway.

There is that expression ‘withered on the vine’ which I suppose is meant to mean something has died even though it was attached, or still part of its source of life and sustenance. Some of my sweet pea seedlings have withered. How upset it makes me. The rest seem fine, but because I can’t work out why some have died it makes me nervous for the rest. Will they all go the same way? I have tried my best, but my knowledge of these things, of horticulture in general, is small. Poor loves. What can I do to nurture you better? He, as always, is more sanguine. ‘Tis best to be so, I think.

There was silence when I set out this morning. Where are the birds? I asked myself. Is there a particular time when they begin their song? And then I heard one, in the distance, nearer town.

She died. And she was so young. I didn’t think you’d know her, he said, after I’d let out a cry at the headline. Poor love. I read her husband’s tweet. My heart goes out to him and her family. I didn’t think it still killed people. Of course it does, he says, rather sharply.

Of course it does. Rest in peace.

We sat out again, twice in fact, now that my articles are done. He wittered and I listened, my face turned like a bloom to the sun. He told me about the Coronation Tea that a neighbour held in their garage (the only space large enough to hold everyone and in case of rain). It’s funny that people had garages when there were so few privately-owned cars. I think of them in that dark space, the door or doors open to the daylight, standing around with mugs of tea (or did they sit at the table on deckchairs) eating cake and talking about the Queen. It would’ve been decorated with bunting and perhaps there were Coronation napkins (I’d say serviettes but he says that’s common). He did say that there were Coronation mugs. He’s lived almost 2 centuries more than me and has memories, as you can see, that I find hard to conceive of – such as the rationing, the roads free of cars, horses and carts still being used (he told me that there was a smithy) and no central heating with ice on the insides of the windows in winter. I think he was happy though for all the comparative discomfort.

The bluebells are out in the gardens along Llanbadarn Road, and those huge, fat red poppies in the old bakery. I tell him of my sightings from my walk – the benches on the Prom being newly painted. And he tells me his.

I love him, do you know that?

It is a comfort when it’s still dark to see lights on in the other flats around the quad. This morning the one directly across from us was ablaze. I could see the woman who lives there with the man with the long blonde hair that works at the Film and TV department of the University (the one he says has got ‘porky’) working at two laptops. She was still hard at it when I got back from my walk at 4.30 am. Sometimes the lad who works at the bike shop in town and who is going out with the colonic nurse has his lights on, which I can see from my studio. And the Americans, who I always think of as Canadians, they too have their bedroom lights on early. I feel a strange connection with these early birds or night owls. We breathe the same air.

The sea was gently lapping this morning, its sound disturbed only momentarily by a parked car pumping out music. And I caught a blackbird perched on a fence singing its heart out, its whole body swelling and pulsing out its song. Glorious.

We sat out last night after supper. The sun was too lovely and I longed to be still in its warmth. He came with me and I listened to his stories, my eyes closed and face lifted. It makes me feel better, it gets me out of my usually fearful head. And I am grateful.

She writes describing her anxiety and my heart goes out to her. I feel so useless when dear friends write of their sadness and disease. Will warm thoughts ever be enough?

Will Self on the radio talking about the editing process and I think about combining fractional pieces of sewing and imagery and text. All I ever need is time. Meanwhile, I have this last one to write.

When it’s sunny and there isn’t time to ‘go and sit out’, I stand up on the window seat in our kitchen upstairs and stick my head out of the skylight. I love seeing the world, our small world, from the rooftops. I can see far off into the distance and I can hear human sounds from the quad down below. Last night someone was playing a penny whistle (or was it a flute). It sounded so light and cheerful and happy. It stills me – the sun on my face, that expanse and those gentle sounds of living.

Lucky: they call my sister lucky, was another one of the half-asleep, half-awake sentences that came into my head this morning. They make him laugh. I even see the punctuation, I tell him. There was definitely a colon.

I was slow this morning, and didn’t manage to do my whole walk. I did make it to the harbour nevertheless, in time to see the fishing boat out at sea, its lights blaring like a flame.