On some days, things just happen.
A Tuesday tale:
Our windows were so dirty and unreachable for us (mostly, but let's have evenly spread dirt) after the winter. 'A window cleaner!' was the cry. 'I have his number.' 'He does not exist any more,' vocalised Mr. Wordtstitcher.
I try the number anyway - as one does. Miraculously, it seemed, he had reappeared. Tuesday was designated for us to move from Dickensian grime to a sparkling modernity of clear glass.
Mark, his name, dutifully set about transforming our lives, showing that our sight is not as bad as we had thought (for our years). He prescribed bi-monthly visits as he could not achieve perfection on this initial attempt and warned against grime as a way of living.
Work completed, he loaded up his ladders and talked about his mother, who is failing and hence his absence. I leaned over the gate to wave my farewell and to repeat my thanks and gratitude when, to my amazement, he hesitated, scratched his head and announced, 'I am a poet; a social poet'.
We fell to talking poetry and it was my turn to point the way forward - out of obscurity and into Blogland.
Contented, we turned aside to resume our lives; two poets, a window cleaner and pure glass.