Jumbly goodness, and an exercise in monologues.

Thanks to Daljit Nagra and the Guardian Poetry Workshop for this exercise.

At St Teresa's on a morning, doors just open.

It's the jumble sale, love, it brings it out
of people. You know what I mean, the money,
the tat. People are willing to pay anything
for that. And who knew Flo still had matching
Wedgwood sideplates? Her dementia, see,
she hasn't a clue what Bert's taken and sold
for the church—well, for all of us dear, who come here.

Even those dirty baby clothes are hers, duck,
can you imagine? Whatever would she want
those for, still, but for memories she can't hold
on to? Who knows whose they were exactly,
except Bert of course, but they're part of the smell
that's forming. Well yes, that's what I think:
there's nothing like that smell but a jumble sale, love.

Did you say you were thinking of the lettuce spinner,
dear? That was Flo's, too, you know, but Bert, bless
his soul, doesn't use it any more for all those
microwave meals. Even these vinyl discs – 50p each –
even these were Flo's. Can you picture it, pet? Her rocking
out to Whitesnake on a Tuesday afternoon? Bert tells me
Def Leppard is very rhythmic. I didn't like to ask what for, duck.
He had that look in his eye that all the young girls complain about.

No we don't have any cakes this year, pet, I'm afraid.
That was always Flo's department. Poor Bert hasn't any idea
what to do with all the sugar and baking things. He says
all he can remember are the times after she'd finished
and would put The Carpenters on, dancing round flowery buns
and silver balls, singing while she cleaned. Fat lot of good
that's done him, eh? Someone's already bought The Carpenters
I'm afraid, but those you've got there will be £2 please.

I wouldn't get the lettuce-spinner either, dear,
you never know what a sort like Bert's put in it since.
I'll send her your regards for the ACDC, yes.
Not that she'll remember, duck, but yes, I'll let her know.