Sea Mist (5)

It’s coming off the sea, he said. Now it’s hanging over Pen Dinas. It’s strange. I don’t understand why it does it. It looks otherworldly. A dirty looking mist, a little brown. Like smoke.

Town was mayhem this morning. Lots of noise. Lots of drinkers.

Two lads with Swansea accents walking towards me, their shirts wide open revealing pink skin from the sun. They are eating pizza from a box as they walk. The way to resolve it, one is saying to the other, is you go that way and I go this way. Later four or five lads can be heard shouting and singing in the Aldi car park. First they chant the name Cardiff City and then they sing a traditional Welsh Folk song which I know but can’t spell. My back tenses up. A not unusual phenomenon but this time perfectly natural. They could do anything those boys. I need to be on my guard. But all is fine. I am invisible in my boots, hat and waterproofs. Electronic music thumped out of Pier Pressure night club. A woman stood next to a man, the word OBEY written three times on the back of her bomber jacket.

More serendipity. Abi Morgan on DID yesterday morning talking about meeting Margaret Thatcher when she was waitressing at an event at the NPG. Then recalling how eight years later (or so) she was writing Iron Lady. We talked about it, he and I as we walked back from North Road. She said she was small, I said. Was she? he asked. Apparently, I said. Then lo and behold it was a cross word clue that evening. Coincidence again? Methinks that academic protests too much.

It seemed to work. I got pictures of them all, my current panel of judges, stuck them in my book and put speech bubbles coming out of their mouths. Though I struggled to really decide what it is they are saying to me. More today. Some supporters – others hindrances. And yet, it isn’t that clear cut. Not really. It held off. I did work without so much tension but it came later. As if it waits. It feels like that sometimes.

He sat on my bed. Budge up, he said. He soothed me, as he always does. We are in this together. He is my witness as I am his. Nothing matters, not really. Except this that we have. This precious thing, this kindness, this love. Love that is kindness, kindness that is love. I am made good by it. He makes me good. It doesn’t matter what I do. I am proud of you, he says. And I know that. But sometimes this falling away of all that I’d hoped for, vague though it is when I examine it, breaks my heart. I am become so small and yet inside I am immense. How that can be I don’t know. Will never know. I don’t think.

Be kind. May the sun shine through the mist. x

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.