The Prom sandpit has become a paddling pool. The two oversized deckchairs seem to be floating. There is sea debris and flotsam everywhere. It’s as if it has been hurled across the road. Pebbles, seaweed, shale and bits of wood. A raging sea. It has calmed down now. Will they clear up? Or are they expecting more of the same?

Four big-thighed girls are walking along Llanbadarn Road as I set out. They are returning home as I was leaving it. One of them is talking while the others listen. Warren said, she is saying, that he’d only had five shots of rum. So much for the newspapers purporting this week that young people are not drinking. Not so Warren, eh? The wind was up. It seems to the buffet the students roaming from club to pizza shop to halls. A neon signed flashes outside Pier Pressure – CLUB OPEN. Several revellers were spilling out, two large security men in high vis jackets look on. And music still pounds out. An A4 sign affixed to the window in both The Celtic Bay and The Cardigan Bay guest houses advise residents that they are ‘welcome to borrow the fishing nets, buckets and spades’. Further along the terrace the Marine Hotel is already advertising for Christmas Lunch. Through the window of the bar I can see several guests still drinking, the bar staff long gone. Has there been a wedding? Down by the harbour the lobster pots have been taken out of the water and piled high behind railings. There is that same warm, fetid smell of fishiness. The boats’ rigging jangles in the wind.

I’m trying to pay attention. To listen, to watch, to fox my mind, to bring it to a stillness. To now. This moment. To drink it in.

I worry you see. I worry too much. Have I done or said the wrong thing? What if I upset someone? What if it all dries up and there is nothing? What it? What if? Worry, worry. I want to trust. To let it go. I do my best. Always. I have my Sunday. Chores done. Some yoga, then work. My work. My gentle work. Preparing. Repetitive work. I need it. Next week there is joy to be had. Friends and love, holding her and being with him all day. You see it is enough. To know what he feels about me is enough. The rest is tripe. Mind-bullying tripe. Bah.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.