Tag Archives: poem

Parties, Parties


partyHAPPY NEW YEAR to you all, and Happy Christmas to you Russian Orthodox lot out there too. I’m sorry I’ve been so rubbish at blogging lately. Wrapping and unwrapping presents has occupied the entirety of my creative brain for nearly a month, not to mention thank you letters and coaxing mini mince pies out of their teensy foil cases without breaking the pastry crust which, I might add, is practically impossible. Did you all have a huge New Year’s Eve party? Where was my invitation? Hmm?

Here is an old poem of mine to reflect the party season. It was requested specially by a friend enjoying her birthday today. Happy Birthday, hon. Hope your celebrations aren’t anything like this.

Simeon’s parties were frightfully gay, renowned for their polish and poise,
Peanuts were absent and Twiglets outré; just champers, the girls and the boys.
Invites were more often latish than never, but Simeon showed no compunction,
For only the in and the rich and the clever would feature at any such function.
He handled his guests with the elegant hauteur which only a phoney could feign
(Provided the guest was a New Labour voter and drank only vintage champagne),
And such was the pitch of the elegant chatter that guests would be filled with delight
That their habits and hobbies and feelings should matter to Simeon, host for the night.


It was later than late when she came through the door, her repartee sharpened and burnished,
She took in the marquetry parquetry floor, the quarters so properly furnished,
Unsure of the reason behind her inviting, beyond the potential resumption
Of Simeon’s favours and consequent fighting with women who had the presumption
To trespass on territory rightfully hers, by blood and by line and by longing,
She’d murder her personal shopper or worse to resume her most rightful belonging.
With shoulders set straight and her knees on display, she clutched on her Soave with suavity,
And walked in with thoughts in decided array, in purposeful search of depravity.


Gussy the stockbroker offered her punch, and grinned with intential leching,
While lesbian Lilian tried to fix lunch and told her her blouson was fetching,
She elbowed her way past asparagus tips in determined pursuit of her quarry,
She’d offer him languorous kissable lips and tell him how dreadfully sorry
She was on the news of his boardroom defeat – he really deserved all the laurels,
And she’d never accuse him again in the street of favouring brains over morals.
The press of the room would account for the touch – then she’d lean up against him confessing
Her palpable need for a favour, not much, which required him to help her undressing.


They sat, a selection of sizes and styles, the exes all patiently waiting
For Simeon’s signals, his summons, his smiles, their appetites anxious for sating,
She eyed them for battle while chewing a nail and arranging her breasts to display them,
Prepared to resort, if bravado should fail, to discourage, disparage or pay them.
But too late! For it seemed that on Simeon’s arm, a vision of ravishing beauty
All dripping with diamonds and “Darling!”s and charm was fast making off with the booty.
She watched with dismay as they mounted the stair, enrapt in each other’s attention,
Her poise disappeared and she clutched at her hair, and bellowed a word I can’t mention.


Mutiny! Riot! The party scene ends, in shards of surprising unsorrow,
The exes converse like the closest of friends and arrange to have dinner tomorrow,
The guests laugh out loud in united abhorrence of all that their host has created,
They stop talking Wagner, Derrida and Lawrence, discussing instead how they hated
The primping and preening of cash-rich careers, the choking society rigours,
And wishing for Twister and Scrabble and beers, and pizza to ruin their figures.


Simeon’s parties are no longer graced by the guests that he wants to invite,
They are filled with the dull and the square and the chaste, and it serves him jolly well right.


Strictly Pensionable


I’m of pensionable age, you know

1500 views on the blog, peeps! This is something to celebrate. Perhaps with a little dance. I shall hand over to the capable feet of an old lady I dreamed up a couple of years ago. Take it away, Great Aunt Wilhelmina.

Great Aunt Wilhelmina has class. Style. Panache. Silk cami-knickers and a handful of warts. All the things to which I aspire as I grow older. Enjoy.

The Bognor Regis Tea Dance was a very quiet affair,
With muted little waltzes and a foxtrot here and there,
So imagine the kerfuffle and the maitre-d’s despair,
When Great Aunt Wilhelmina danced the tango.
She stalked across the polished floor as everybody watched,
The orchestra was forced to take the tempo up a notch,
She dusted off and straightened out her stockings at the crotch,
And raised her arms in honour of the tango.

Get with the groove

With wrinkled lips in fuchsia pink and curled into a moue,
Great Aunt Wilhelmina cried “Ole!” and stamped a shoe,
Then whirled until her twinset and her box pleats went askew,
You never saw the like of such a tango!
The plasterwork resounded with arthritic finger clicks,
The customers were gasping at the drama of her kicks,
Her teeth were clenched and snarling in their bed of Dentufix,
And Bognor felt the passion of the tango.
* * * 
Now sad to tell, that tango was the last she danced on earth,
The rigour proving fatal to her age and to her girth,
But every day I pray and plead and hope, for what it’s worth,
That God will smile on Great Aunt Wilhelmina,
And Heaven will resemble Argentina.

Pearly gates dead ahead, señora



Pop the goodies on the trestle, / Don’t you think this lovely dress’ll / Find a home as soon as Lynn / Lets the plastic baggers in? / What’s the entrance fee we’re charging?/ Got to stop them all from barging / Past the nearly newish rack / Straight towards the bric-a-brac.

Jumble sales. Jumbling to those in the know. It’s like being a millionaire with a gold credit card. I’ll take that, and that. Maybe even that, despite the crackling manmade fibres. Oh, I’m so buying that full-length velour ball gown. And I know I’ll give the asymmetrical jumper a go even though I’m not entirely sure which way is up. Put your elbows and your capacious flat-bottomed shopper away, Madam. I saw the embroidered biker jacket first.

Now they’ve formed a decent queue, / Pull the bolt back, let them through! / Ready with your plastic tubs, / Guard those raffle-ticket stubs, / Here’s a lovely summer two-piece, / Child’s pyjamas stamped with Snoopys, / Janet Reger, I declare! / (Doesn’t seem to be much there.)

No other retail experience comes close. We’re talking armfuls. We’re talking endless plastic bags filled to the brim. A blissful half an hour of trying things on back at home, weeping with laughter and gasping with delight, sorting out what to keep and what to pass on to next week’s Scouts event. Best buy of the day: the dress which shall henceforth be known as Princess Margaret 1976. Elmoor of London, it says on the label. Elmoor. It speaks of tweed, smoky coffee houses, talcum powder and Bri-Nylon. It’s time-travel boiled into a frock. If I’m not invited to a vintage garden party very soon, I shall have to host one.

Truffle hunt among the blouses, / 20p? You’re safe as houses, / Not a waste of cash, I swear it, / If you never get to wear it. / Love the Pierrot lustreware! / Got to have a bust to wear / This trouser-suit, it’s cut so low / (It once was mine, I ought to know).

Bric-a-brac has never appealed as much as those mountains of over-washed jumpers, the long collars on psychedelic drip-dry shirts, the rail of bling-button Jaeger suits, the occasional item which produces a mystified silence followed by: “Oh well, I’ll buy it anyway and find out what it is when I get it home.” In the world of jumbling there’s no such thing as buyer’s remorse.

Have a cuppa now we’re done. / Wasn’t that a lot of fun? / Take a slice of lardy cake. / Hope I never have to bake / Another batch of home-made scones, / They weren’t as good as dear Yvonne’s.

Off to dance the night away with Lord Lichfield now. But before I put on my dancing slippers, I must alert you to my guest blog slot on the lovely Girls Heart Books tomorrow, March 12. www.girlsheartbooks.com. And there will be giveaways of WILD #1: TIGER TROUBLE. See you there!

Time to parcel up what’s left, / Village hall looks quite bereft, What’s this object lying here? / Absolutely no idea.