The town was full of Halloween party goers making their way home. A girl in a red silk lined Dracula cape wandered along the Prom, alone and looking rather disconsolate with a long baguette in her hand. At the end of Terrace Road another girl in a sequin-dotted, mauve net tutu that revealed large black pants underneath, a black bra and black knee length socks had what looked like a unicorn’s horn on her head. A homeless man crouched in the doorway of Coffee# called out to her. Eh, what’s that you got on your ‘ed? She shouted back: wouldn’t you like to know, it might be a dildo. Is it? he called back. It might be, she replied. She was walking down the street with a lad. They parted at the corner and she made to cross the road, if a little unsteadily. Cross over, she shouted to him. Cross. He said something in return that I didn’t catch but ended his sentence with ‘you fucking slag’. Which she appeared to take in good part. As I made my way home, umbrella up against the rain, another girl with rabbit ears strapped to her head walked ahead of me, a boy joining her. My friends are all stuck up, she said to him.

My two big toes are still uncomfortable in my boots which is a bugger. I’ve tried all sorts, different socks, insoles and to no avail. It’s a mystery. It eases a little as I walk but it takes the edge off the pleasure. To be alive sometimes is to hurt, I think.

A milder morning that smelt of Autumn. He slept little last night, fretting about me. I try to gee him up, am I too brusque? I do understand. It’s in his nature to worry, as it is in mine. But I feel more detached than him. What will be will be. There is little we can do but wait. It may be something, it may be nothing.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.