A Squeeze into Rumpled Pleasantries


A Squeeze into Rumpled Pleasantries

I find winter a headache. Constant, earnest,
wanton chess-playing with rascals at the door
and serenely mannered neighbours who give

me significant looks, and no doubt I should
know what it all means, but its manner
and manoeuvre is half lost on me.

May I call you Selma?
… but that’s not my name.

So I squeeze myself back into rumpled
pleasantries just as Mrs Peepy draws
closed her white lacy curtains. I smile,
‘though I don’t think that she notices  …




Found text from Bleak House by Charles Dickens, and remixed
with my 1991 Winter Journal from Bletchingley, Surrey


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