Hi there! Hello! Everybody! My name’s Minnie Moonglimpse. And I’ve been moved to speak. I don’t know if what I’m about to say is something you’ve already thought of. But it means a lot to me. It’s about Goodness. About being Nice. Not much of that around these days, is there?

It started – or rather happened – in the High Street. It wasn’t actually a revelation. In itself. But in a way – it became one.

Our High Street isn’t exactly the place for a revelation, is it? Not what it was! All the familiar places gone. That little corner shop, the one that stayed open all hours – and holidays as well. All the banks. And the post office. And the pub on the corner at the other end – not that I ever went in there.

Anyway, that day in the High Street a new shop was being opened. I forget what the old one had been. There were a lot of people outside. Some sort of ceremony. Or launch. Quite a crowd. Of all ages. Women and men. Of all backgrounds. Quite the Family of Mankind. Lots of balloons. Kiddies with toy trumpets. Someone – I couldn’t see clearly – gave a short speech and the balloons were released. I followed them out of sight.

Everyone else crammed into the shop. I was able to see the full frontage. How it stood out against its boarded-up neighbours! The shop was totally devoted to Greetings Cards.

I squeezed inside, and was amazed at the number and range of cards. All round the walls, rows and rows of island bays. Bit like a library. Quite a maze at times. The labels on the shelves alerted you against going down the same aisle again. Cards of all sizes. For all occasions. For all ages. Not just for someone’s birthday or anniversary. There’s not a day in the year that isn’t officially designated to celebrate some event or occasion. Happy, positive, life-enhancing, uplifting. Full of the Feel-Good Factor.

And the cards themselves! Well, let’s not forget the envelopes. Just as colourful and patterned. What a joy to receive one on the door mat! Or alongside a present. Hand delivered even.

Some cards are delicately scented. Others sparkle as if cake-decorated or glistening with champagne bubbles. Several have a music box inside that plays a simple, heart-warming ditty.

But though the cards were lovely in themselves, it was the poem inside that really appealed to me. I went to the card shop every day just to read the poems. Not out loud, of course, but enunciating soundlessly, with my lips moving and my free hand gesturing.

I’ve always loved poetry.

I used to spend hours browsing in the local library, flicking through slim volumes of verse. Well, slim they may have been, but the contents were often heavy. Meaningful, no doubt. But their import sometimes escaped me. I never dreamt of writing myself. The library now has reduced opening hours. I’m never sure which days it’s open. It may have closed altogether.

I was more than satisfied with the poetry to be found in the Card Shop. And, yes, I am now thinking of writing verses myself. Not just for a one-off occasion, such as birthdays. More for a frame of mind, a state of well-being, particularly of health.

I now know my Purpose in Life. The reason why I am on this Earth. It is to write poems. Poems for Get-Well-Soon cards. That is my level of doing Good. It’s not an easy task I have chosen – or rather what has been given Unto Me.

I was so unsure of my very first poem. I showed it to friends, who praised it, said it was far too short and should be set to music. I was advised to send a handful to a producer of specialist greeting cards. Which I did – and to my surprise was commissioned to write more. Which I did – to considerable acclaim. My verses were much sought after. I became the pre-eminent poet for Get-Well-Soon cards.

I think this was partly because I took special care to tailor each verse to a particular ailment. One of my verses came in for great praise, though today I am almost embarrassed by it. ‘Here’s hoping you get well / And your ankles do not swell.’

I was to go on to extend my range to Bereavement cards.

Then, my dear friend Buntie, from the Disused Church in the High Street, made a truly perceptive remark. She’s no fool is Buntie.

‘There’s a gap in the market,’ she said. ‘Between Get-Well-Soon cards and Bereavement cards. You mustn’t forget those who need the reassurance of Poetry as to where they might soon be off to? And what it could be like when they get there?’ 

I pondered on this. A tundra belt. Forgotten, indeed. One that could be fraught and would need tact. How sensitively one must approach a taboo! I wrote several poems aimed for this group. I read them to friends. Half-way through I lost heart. I was encouraged by my audience. Then one particular poem seemed to register.

There’s a mantelpiece in Heaven

With your ashes in an urn.

It’s made of precious marble

And doth make all heads to turn.

‘Ah! Don’t stop,’ cried Buntie. ‘Please. Go on. Let there be a second verse.’

I had indeed sketched a second verse. It had caused me much heart-ache and needed considerable revision. More than just fine-tuning. I was loath to read it out. After much encouragement I did so.

They turn to sing your praises

For the Great Good that you did. 

On either side’s a handle.

There’s a gold clip on the lid.

The moment I uttered the word ‘lid’ a piercing shriek rang out. It was Bunty hyperventilating. All hands rushed to help her. When she regained the power of speech she whispered ‘It begs a Third Verse. Please. Please. Don’t disappoint …us.’

O Bunty, you know not what you’ve asked. I may only be the vessel, but I am torn apart!

For months I have agonized on that Third Verse. Nothing seems to follow on from the first two. Perhaps I am suffering from Writers’ Block. Who will wish me Get-Well-Soon? Will Time …? Or a change of Scenery …?

For a season I went to a retreat in the Celtic Fringes where poetic inspiration readily flows. But to no avail.

At length I felt my only recourse was to revisit the High Street where ‘Things’ had all begun.

Still run-down, yes, and boarded-up. But a flourishing Charity Shop and Food Bank. And the Card Shop had extended and taken over its immediate neighbours.

I am sorely tempted to go in. I fear I may be recognized and asked to sign autograph books.

I don’t know if I’ll ever get round to doing that Third Verse. Or if I’m even up to it.

Oh well.

Big Shrug. Big Hug.

I do my best. I suppose that’s the sort of person I am.

John Dixon