I’ve got these slippers, well they’re more like boots really. He calls them UG boots but they’re not. They have no hard soles. Anyway, they are suede, sheepskin I suppose with lovely furry interiors. And they need cleaning. But no drycleaners seem to do suede anymore. Can’t you buy some of that suede cleaning spray? one of the girls in the local drycleaners asked him. No, he said, we want them properly cleaned. When he got home he started to ring round. He’s lovely like that, and when he gets the bit between his teeth there’s no stopping him. He called up a Johnson’s in Swansea. I can’t help you at the moment, a girl said over the phone, you’ll have to ring back. I didn’t catch your name? he said. Kim, she said, or is it Kylie? Well, he said, what is it? I dunno, she said, I haven’t had my coffee yet.

Town was busy this morning, with young revellers still filing out of the clubs. Girls with big glumpy thighs in tiny mini skirts, with no tights or leggings to guard their flesh from the cold. There was vomit and empty food cartons strewn across pavements. Two girls walked arm in arm along the Prom. A fire was still burning on the beach.

It was a turgid writing day yesterday. It makes me feel sick sometimes. I have an hour before work and will begin to shape it. Still very very tired.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.