I often hear her when I am taking an afternoon nap. She is outside, beneath his bedroom window, calling. She is calling to one of her daughter’s cats. There are two of them. The Kray twins, Ronnie and Reggie. I’ve written of them before. They are prize specimens. Grey spotted animals that apparently are worth a fortune. They have some kind of tracking device affixed to their collars. This is connected to an app with a map that shows where they are. They both like to prowl around the undergrowth playing hunt the mouse, the shrew or the tiny bird. They are killing machines. But they are her babies. Her mother babysits for them when she is away. Hence the calling. Yesterday it was Ronnie who she was seeking. She makes a miaowing sound first, then calls out his name in a high-pitched voice. She comes into the coffee shop he goes to sometimes. He finds her challenging, the mother that is, for she apparently talks a lot. Unlike her daughter who is rather taciturn, especially towards him since he suggested that she put something on her cats’ collars to stop them killing things. They are only fulfilling their instinct, I believe she said. And clearly hasn’t forgiven him.

A beautiful clear sky today. The stars were out. I saw a moving one. I think it was a plane. I thought of them all up there fast asleep. Trusting that they will be delivered safely home. A fishing boat was all lit up in the harbour ready for off. I love their lights. A great traffic light system fixed to the mast. I saw another out at sea as I came down the hill to the bar.

Hermione Gingold was the guest on Frankly Speaking this morning. A repeat obviously, I think it was from the 60s. She’d clearly just moved to New York. She loved it, she said. I hate the early nights people keep here in Britain, she said. In New York she could entertain into the wee wee hours and ‘if you get hungry’, she said, ‘you can call down for some chicken. Where would you get food on a Sunday night in England?’ she said. She talked about the early years as an actress and having no money. ‘You had to choose between a bus ticket or a welsh rarebit somewhere,’ she said. I love the detail of peoples’ speech. Where did the welsh rarebit come from? She was glorious. What would be described as a real character, I suppose. Not difficult but opinionated. And classy.

I shall write today. I am nervous about it. I’m not sure where I am going with the next ‘scene’ (for want of a better word). I suppose I just need to write and see. Suck it and see. But it is a good stretch of time. Till 10 am. Till the Archers. Or not. We shall see.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.