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Wet Paint

They’re painting the Prom railings again. It is a long job. I think it is over a mile and half long. I smell the gloss as I walk.

The window cleaners came on Tuesday and most of the huge splat of bird shit has gone, though I noticed a little smear this morning. A sign that perfection is never truly within our grasp, perhaps?

One of the Krays is on the Americans’ balcony, I shouted up to him. What? he shouted back down. One of the Krays has got onto the Americans’ balcony, he’s lying between the pots, I reiterated, more loudly this time. I’ll see to it later when I’ve finished up here, he replied. He was laughing when he came into the studio some time after. You should put that in your blog, he said. And here it is.

Do you remember the Krays? They are one of our neighbours two cats, Ronnie and Reggie. They are stunning but lethal. And expensive (she has them tagged and follows their ‘jungling’ exploits in the undergrowth around the estate on her phone, often going to ‘collect’ them when they stray too far). Did they climb up to get on the balcony, which I can see from my studio window, or did someone leave the back door open? Either way, Ronnie or Reg had gone when he went down. (I can’t tell them apart – it’s a mother’s prerogative, I suppose.)

I want to sit and write but must go out and have my feet done. A six monthly thing that never comes at the right time. Breathe. All will get done. It’s beginning to work itself out in my head, now all I have to do it get it down on paper.

By Ellen Bell

Artist and writer currently living in Aberystwyth.