Wednesday, 28 October 2009


The daughter and I getting giddy at the
Thought of new outfits for Harry; on the town
With a pocket full of finance and a keen
Eye out for what he doesn’t know he wants,
But we do. And when we think we’ve cracked it,
And our basket’s full, a glint catches an eye’s corner;
On the table, a navy blue puffed jacket, not his size,
But breathlessly we check beneath until we’ve caught
Our prize and then into the net it goes. We take him
To a hamburger restaurant for his bottle, but he doesn’t
Want simple milk supplements, he’s eyed the pile of
Meat patties and his eyes are no bigger than his belly,
So he sucks the juice from one corner and the producers
Of fast food appear to have another follower at their altar,
Regardless of whether he eats healthily for six days a week.

Stacked and packed and paid and out into
The pre-Christmas pantomime of the streets
We go, needling our way through the flow of
This bedraggled mass of South Yorkshire’s
Track suited finest; all mulling whether to buy now
And save time or wait for more fortune later, when the
Markets will be overflowing with bargains. The
Food stalls already are: an arsenal of every seasonal
Vegetable stacked in pyramids and traditional wooden
Boxes; a veritable cacophony of western staples straining
Traders’ patience and appealing for your table and, hidden
Inside the old Corn store, everything except the hooves, hides
And horns of animals are sliced for every conceivable palette,
And I just know this ballet of ours will run until my kids are full,
And my wallet bemoans the fact that I didn’t pack it well enough.

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