I mimed in front of mirror, as you do,
what I’d say to her, setting my hair
straight,
sorting my self out, as you do.

I were wearing that dress
with like a wreath
of flowers rahnd collar.

Turns up in her chuffing chariot
I hears it first, then twitch our
net curtains back, to see it arrive.

Then she’s at our door, fidgetting
with her skirt, clipboard in hand.
On the starting blocks.

I says a prayer as a opened door to her.
I were having snap outside
as it were Summer. Kept her in.
Don’t want neighbours gossip.

I tell you she’s for the high jump
if she doesnt give us what we’re due.

I’d run a chuffing mile
as soon as tell her owt.

Didn’t ask about my health. She were all
“What do you do on a Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday?”

Throw a wobbly if she must.

I’m not tussling to and fro
about my obvious aches and pains.

Expects a bleedin cup of tea
for prying into my affairs.
She can take a running jump.

“Are you dyslexic?” she prys.
” There’s a door there. Get through it. That’s how dyslexic I am.” I tell her.

Who does she think she is ,
god of health or summat?

© 2017, Paul Brookes

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