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