I remembered. I remembered the last dream I had before waking. I love preserving my dream worlds, they are visionary states to me, full of wisdom. And often, though not over the last week or so, it is the last one that stays with me, the one I have usually between 12.30 and 1 am. The worlds are familiar. Time and time again it is that hill, outside, a street, a busy street, a foreign street. The road is white, like the marbled pavements of Spain. The sun is shining and either side of the street is flanked with coffee houses and shops. There is bustle, noise and clamour. In this particular dream I was walking with him down a busy inside corridor and we passed a dear friend of mine. She was talking to someone and I thought she hadn’t recognised me. I wasn’t sure what to do so greeted her and moved on. Then we were in her flat. A one room apartment. She was inside with us but had also posted a letter for me under her door. I could see it being pushed under. Inside was a ten pound note, a present for my birthday and a note about where to go for a massage and a reading (things we have done together in the past) with names and prices. She talked about her plans for a business making cakes and handed me a leaflet. Then she talked about getting some birds and how she would hang their cages from the ceiling. I asked her about how she could afford to live in London. Then she told us of a huge Council Tax she’d had to pay, over £52 K and the depression that set on a result, but that the mistake had been rectified and that she was living on the rebate.

I felt good when I woke. It had been a dream of lightness, of friendship, of being loved, of opportunities and possibilities.

And yesterday was a good day. Work was fine. I was acknowledged, spoken too and engaged with. I practised making origami cranes and scotty dogs, even leaving them there, on the window sill, a gift. I don’t know where I am going with this but something, something may come of it. I was fired up with my conversation with her and was prompted to email some contacts just to see if they might be interested in my current work. Who knows? It’s about not being stuck. Seeing what is possible.

The sun shines. The house has been cleaned and after my second cup of tea I am positively buoyant.

All my troubles end tomorrow, at least as far as money is concerned, she says. All to do with Uranus apparently, and how it has been in the house of other people’s money (and surely, mine as well) for what seems like ages. We shall see, my noble soothsayer. I’m open to it. Let the abundance rain down on me. Then pass it on.

A jar of peanut butter. I wouldn’t eat it now, but if I was in their situation of need, as indeed I have been several times, I would. That gooey mass of crunchy sweetness and salt would be a comfort. Brown toast and peanut butter. Yes. The wire stand where the Food Bank items are stored at Morrison’s was piled high with bags of pasta and tins of tomatoes this morning. Sensible, yes and perfect for an easy meal but the cosy foods are nice too. Rice pudding, tins of custard, Bonne Maman strawberry jam, chocolate digestives and good coffee. At least one a week. Yes.

It was to be my way of sharing my good fortune. I’d given up my job to start life as a full-time, self-supporting artist (while also doing a part-time PhD.) and decided to donate a percentage of all my art work sales to charity. I did well for a couple of months. Then it all dried up. It was 2008. What a year to begin my adventure. I was sorry to renege on my intention. And now, well I count every penny. As I count every blessing.

Let’s see what we can do, eh?

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.