It is the week when the two Universities of Bath have their graduation ceremonies in the Abbey. This means it’s now possible for me to pop out for a coffee, and return forty-five minutes later without having had said coffee, because all I’ve done is get completely sandwiched in the crowds of cap ‘n gowned students, and not been able to get back out. But, on the upside, the buskers have given up and gone home (because they can’t be heard over the noise anyway), so no more Nessun Dorma.

In the studio I am starting to hit my stride. I have now fiddled about with all the basic things I can do with paint-dipped knives, and more elaborate and complex ideas are starting to form in my head. Whenever I see them I buy drawing pins, tiny nails, and dressmakers pins: anything that looks remotely pointy or jabby is finding its way back to my studio.

But painting everything takes two or three coats, with maybe two coats of varnish over the top, and all the drying times in-between. I’m a tad worried that if it takes two or three days to make a picture 25x25cm, I won’t have enough to fill a gallery for my exhibition in a month’s time. Nevertheless, sculptural pieces are beginning to take shape, and plans for bigger canvases are underway.

I am also extremely tired, but I don’t care. Despite my Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, I fully intend to make the most of the studio-time that’s allocated to me. I’ve had plenty of boring rest-time before I started this residency, and I’ll have plenty more when it’s done. In the meantime, I push though as best I can because it is bringing parts of me alive that have been lying dormant far too long.

Those parts are not my legs, however. And, quite apart from all the walking to and fro, my studio is in the basement, while the sink for washing out brushes is on the first floor. And I have to wash out my brushes a pigging lot.

I check the ‘Health’ monitor in my phone – it seems I’m getting perilously close to 10,000 steps every day, and even chucking another 5,000 on top of that sometimes. No wonder my thigh muscles are wondering what’s hit them. I look back fondly on the day it recorded a mere 16 steps. Yes, I did have flu and was in bed all that day. And, yes, I did forget to take my phone with me whenever I stumbled to the loo. So, ok, I probably did do a few more than 16 steps, but I still think it’s quite an achievement.

I take a couple of hours out to collect my ‘birthday present’ from my son, Sam, and his lovely fiancee, Leona. It is a Book Spa, which is something offered by one of the local independent book shops. I pop along to Mr B’s Emporium at the appointed time, and am settled into a comfy armchair and given coffee.

I’m introduced to Ed, who will be assisting me in choosing books: as part of the Book Spa I am allowed to take home £60 worth. He is tall, and knowledgeable, and so wonderfully enthusiastic it is like being with a super-smart, stretched-out, six-year old. Ed asks me about my favourite novels and why I like them. Then he goes off to make selections for me based on what we’ve talked about. While he’s choosing, I am given cake!

Ed brings back armfuls of books. He is just about to start going through them in more detail, when my eye falls on one displayed on the table right in front of me. I go very still. So much so that Ed becomes concerned, and asks if I’m alright? I smile. ‘That’s my late husband’s name,’ I say, pointing at the book. It is nice to feel he’s with me, even if it is a bit surreal.

On my last day I start messing about with razor-blades, turning them into tessellating shapes that remind me of early Space Invader graphics. It has been four weeks, and despite all the sharp shit on my worktable, I’ve only had one paper-cut, one slightly gashed knuckle on a blob of dried glue, and had my index finger sliced into a tiny bit by the edge of some foam-board. Ergo, I’ve become careless and blasé. By the end of the afternoon I have six sticking plasters on several fingers, and am discovering how difficult it is to stick tiny little nails onto the stem of a drawing pin with all that gubbins on my hands.

It is also not that easy to change the wheel on my car, the following day, when the theme of ‘cutting’ continues and my tyre blows out on the M3, on the way home. I make a mental note to buy an industrial-sized pack of plasters to bring back with me next week.

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