The Brontës Are In My House

I try to imagine them – like, really try.

Whenever I try to imagine someone who seems unreal, for some reason I always place them in my house - usually in a doorway. Maybe that’s the most real life place for me?

I wonder how Kareem Abdul-Jabbar would look in my galley kitchen, next to the fridge. Way too tall for my artexed ceiling, scrunched up, trying to be polite whilst I make him a cup of tea.

How tiny would Kylie be in front of my bookcase? Barely able to reach the witchcraft section on the top shelf.

And so I really try and picture Emily, Charlotte and Anne standing in my front room. Swishing about, dresses rustling on the rug.

Arms as pale as church candles, less like bodies, more like fog.