Success at Last!

I have sold some copies of my book! Yesterday found me wandering around the estate, taking my poetry door-to-door and reading to the people. This attempt was unsuccessful, for nobody would allow me to stand on their doorsteps for longer than a minute. I have since deduced that this was not a fault of my poetry, but rather an aversion caused by my nudity from the waist down.

This morning I wore pantaloons as normal, and tried again. After several setbacks I decided to attempt Mrs Cribbage across the road, though she has always held a great antipathy towards me and I was by no means confident of success. Well, readers, on this occassion she was quite delightful. Receiving no answer to my knocking, I traversed the many full milk bottles littering her step and made my way to her back door which was slightly ajar, and let myself in.

I beheld her sitting in an armchair staring directly at me. I am afraid that she quite stunk, but I did not point this out for fear of causing offence. Ordinarily she is a garrulous harridan, but today she was calm and quiet. I asked if I could read to her my poetry and took her lack of reply as an affirmative one.

I read the entire poem through to completion, and she seemed quite taken with it for as I finished, she slumped forward in her chair in supplication to my genius. Embarrassed by this exaggerated praise, I nevertheless felt warm inside knowing that I had finally reached someone.

It was then that I noted an envelope full of twenties lying on her coffee table. Presumably her pension.

"Oh Mrs Cribbage," I said, with a small tear welling in my eye, "Of course you may buy six copies of my book for further consideration."

I helped myself to £300 and balanced six copies of my book upon her back, at which point she made a great show of throwing herself to the floor and genuflecting spread-eagled at my feet in gratitude. Foolish woman has probably never experienced decent poetry in her life, and was quite overcome.

Her dog seemed needlessly distressed and was charging around the house soiling the carpet. Mrs Cribbage is too old to own such an excitable dog, and should consider better means to keep it in check. Before I left, I took the time to lock the dog in the living room with Mrs Cribbage, so that she might look after it a little better. I hope she shall provide food for it soon, for the wretched beast looked half-starved.

£300 and a humbling show of praise is not bad for a day's work though - I may return tomorrow to offload a few more copies onto old Mrs Cribbage.