I recently shared an overlarge, rather empty wedding reception table with a tired and largely silent couple in their mid 60’s.

We initially exchanged awkward smiles above the booming DJ and from then on avoided any direct contact while we picked at our food with our plastic knives and forks.

When the cold platter was whisked into the bridesmaids plastic refuse sack, they sat out the rest of the evening, next to each other but far apart. Both seemingly floating in their own worlds while still connected by the shared decades of silt and familiarity.

I too sat out the long and grinding event.

Gradually, I began to find some day dreaming refuge from the blue and orange pulsing beats, from the dancing drunks and crying kids, from the anyone for second helpings of black forest gateaux and wet smelly cheese.

What would it be like if suddenly I turned into John Travolta? If I whisked off and away on my two left feet and really owned that laminated dance floor? Really showed that dancing throng that I can Aga do do do like the rest of them.

Too fanciful, too gut wrenching for words.

So I drifted my attentions nearer to home. What, I wondered, would it be like if both Mr and Mrs 60 something over there merely stood up, what if the disco schelp hushed upon their rising  and they were given free reign and cordless mic to speak out the wisdom of their married life together …… ?




In the battle to keep my ear-lobes hairless

I need a degree in spatial awareness

a mirror, tweezers, and Life Coach for goals

and to comb plait and pluck both nasal holes.

She’ll offer encouragement to face my life hurdles

‘ensure-plus’ for my nourishment and extra tight girdles

to impress the ladies with my silth like physique

while I play Russian roulette with my heart once a week

as I squeeze into old kit, she’s whitened in the wash

and I feel like an old git as I’m beaten at squash by my

 junior partner.

How come I get blackheads, blotches and pimples?

and while laughter lines have turned into wrinkles

my arms have got shorter and I’m quicker at sex

but I still look alluring in gold half rim specs

I’m a youthful free thinker and a senior exec

who happens to like jumpers with a linked diamond check

and my fantasy affair is a personalized number

on a red sports car, hot chocolate, then slumber

before it gets dark and the wife begins snoring

still not left my mark, guess I’ll wait till the morning.

And Mrs.



I get flashes of heat and fun in my life

discrete as a mum, I play dumb as a wife.

In order to stay clear of each marriage chore

by day I disappear and by night I just, snore.

I eat lunch at my gym and shop in monsoon

and get moist in the pages of a new Mills and Boon

my Maria’s a treasure, she’s spotless and quick

so I no longer clean and my nails rarely chip

which leaves much more time to organise

that husband of mine, how he loves a surprise.


When I put my mind to it I can be quite inventive

and loving and kind and jolly attentive.

I will plan it today, buy a lovely big horse

and he’ll whisk me away, somewhere sunny of course,

we’ll trot to the seas edge and while dipping his paddle

I’ll cling to his two veg, lest he falls off the saddle

from high pitch voice he’ll cry ‘I am loosing me knack’

and I’ll have no choice but try to ride his thing bareback.


I first,

need my hair done

with a,

leg wax to follow.

Good grief

where’s the day gone?

Best I wait till tomorrow.