When the old Egyptian man

or maybe he was Greek, he had that sort of moustache, drove his blue Fiat 500 right onto the bus, there was uproar. I went up front, near the Americans with their skin and ice creams until, arriving in what should have been Taunton but looked like Bruges, I took the towpath where the dogs hang out to that marvellous farmhouse. My former boss was breakfasting. You must come to my wedding, she said. (She was married already but wanted another chance to shine). Then her real friend arrived and she withdrew my invitation so, while they were dancing, I reclaimed my glass bowl and left. I asked the man in the kiosk which bus would get me home but it had already gone. Luckily, Magda Santorini who, years back, had taught me to walk the slackrope, took my arm. She’d told me that, as a child, she’d faked a vision of the Blessed Virgin to make herself popular. Now she questioned me about my so-called affair with her cousin’s husband. She’d got the wrong end of the stick. I’m not making excuses, I said, making excuses. Above us, on the escarpment, in a glass-walled room, soignée women drank luminous cocktails. Where are we? I asked. She looked at me gone out. Why, under the castle of course.

Kathy Pimlott’s collection, the small manoeuvres, was published by Verve Poetry Press in 2022. She has two pamphlets with the Emma Press, Elastic Glue (2019) and Goose Fair Night (2016). Kathy lives in Seven Dials, Covent Garden, home of the broadsheet and the ballad.