The sun’s shining. It feels as if summer is well and truly here. What better way to spend an hour or so than cleaning the back door?  Yes, and before you ask, I am sad, but put yourself in my position: the door’s not been cleaned since we moved in almost seven months ago, and it was dirty then. In addition, my mother’s coming to stay. Couldn’t possibly show face if my back door was dirty, could I now?

Besides, it gives me an opportunity to get to know the neighbours, several of whom are standing beside the fence. They seem to be fascinated by this mad woman wiping a cloth against the door of her “shed”. They exchange glances. They’ve never noticed the man whose grass they like to munch wiping the door of their shed.

One of the neighbours seems to be particularly interested in what I’m doing. Not wishing to offend, I put down my bucket and my cloth and stop to have a chat.  I tell her about the new volume out in September by Arachne Press, who are publishing one of my Corsican prose poems. She emits a loud “humph” through her nostrils, but then nods agreement about the weather. She’s not so sure when I tell her she has a large lump of mud hanging from her eyelash, and wanders off. Perhaps I’m becoming too personal. Silly ol’ cow.