Peter the Dog

I think it was a crossword clue that made him think about it. Well, the answer, which was Peter the Great. Did I tell you that my brother had a horse called Peter the Dog? he asked, looking at me, daring me to sigh and say I’d heard it before. I had but I like the quirkiness so I didn’t mind being reminded of it. It wasn’t a real horse but a rocking horse. Nice though. Am I sometimes impatient with his reminiscences?

A quick one today. I’ve got to get back to the article before the fear of it paralyses me completely. Breathe.

It rained this morning. It was still warm but the air was fresher, cooler nevertheless and everything smelt wonderful. A new day feeling. I went the wrong way round the Prom being too distracted by thoughts about this writing I’ve to do and the renditions of the Bronte sisters we are currently watching each evening. The power of Emily and the contained force of Charlotte and the pure sweetness of Anne. I am bowled over once again. He is too.

I read the hand-written sign affixed to the glass door of Capricorn Gowns on on Terrace Road. It read something like ‘PARCEL POST. Please return to sender any parcels sent to Capricorn Gowns, thank you‘. Why? I wanted to ask. Don’t you even want to see what they are? It hasn’t closed down, or at least doesn’t appear to have done. There are still the stiff mannequins in the window sporting various floaty cake-like efforts favoured by women of a certain age. And that large papier mache dalmatian. What that is about God knows. Odd times, eh? And then, distracted as I was, I walked past the Pelican Bakery wanting my fix of the bread smell and I had a jolt for there was the baker standing in the doorway in his shorts and apron. Good morning, he said. I did a kind of dance, trying too late to observe a social distance. Odd times, indeed.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.