Those Outside

They think I can’t hear them. I hear everything from my seat by the window. She’s there again. They begin. The old witch of number eleven. They look away when I look out at them and wave. They run away when I smile. They aren’t anywhere to be seen when I’m outside the cottage, offering my special tasty jam. Plum. Apple and strawberry. Blackcurrant. Yet when I’m in my armchair, they gather. Throw it through the window. Smash it… go on! I can’t, look, she’s right there. I let them carry on, of course. If they want to think I’m a witch, they can think it. I’ve sat in this same spot for over two hundred years, and the one thing I’ve learned over time is it gets easier. Not their words. Catching them off guard and enticing them in for my jam. When I’m ready and they’re not  it’s always a good time to gather ingredients, although some do give a bit of a kick.