Romper Suits & Bower Birds

She is three today. I remember her calling me. I’ve some news, she said.

I smelt his cigarette before I saw him. He was outside one of the tall terrace houses adjoining the Little Italy Italian Restaurant sitting on a step with his feet on a railing. He was smoking. I only caught a quick glance. He seemed to wearing a fake fur short dressing gown, rather like a baby’s romper suit with child-like motifs on it. His legs were bare. He was reading his phone screen as he smoked. It always gives me a shock to see people awake at that hour. I think I have the world to myself then.

Another fishing boat was mooring as I walked down into the harbour. And there was a new lit Christmas tree in a flat along South Marine, next door to Yr Hafod. Also at the back of one the houses on that same Terrace was a huge array of balloons hanging from a garden awning. Had someone been celebrating?

Barbara Windsor has died. She had lost it all, all gone, all forgotten. She is remembered now. Rest in peace. Such smiles.

I dreamt I was holding some sculptures. I was with my Norwegian family. I think they were theirs. One was made from cloth and was coming apart like a much loved toy. They were meant to be icons or representations of loved friends. And I had a doll, a Sindy that I’d been using in a piece of work. I wasn’t satisfied with it and started to scrape off all the make-up I’d put on her face.

I catch David Attenborough talking about bowerbirds, the complicated structures they build and the shiny things they steal and forage in order to attract a mate. Fascinating. If their plumage is blue they tend to collect blue gimcrack. How look us they are.

Too many little jobs fill my head. Quite exhausting. Oh, to be still.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.