The ghost of Arabella is having none

of this pseudo-mimetic nonsense.

She lifts the lid. Peeks in. Some heathen soul

has gone and dumped one in it,  and, what’s more,

not taken the trouble to flush. She frowns.

Does it herself. Throws ‘artist’ a dirty look.

“Some plumber you. I prefer cowboys

and thieves. For, after all, I’ve always been

the social-climbing DIY girl. Still

am in afterlife I guess. Hence here I am.”

Her ghost thoughts start to flash back and reminisce.