The relief of the third day of the holidays
When the washing is done,
The house is clean,
And someone has taken the kids to the zoo.
The moment when a stranger sees
That you are struggling to juggle
A basket and a new baby and
Lets you go first in the supermarket queue.
That feeling when the joint you cooked
Is carved in front of your hypercritical in-laws
And is wondrously graded inside
To a moist and tender pink.
When the washing all dries on the line
In a good breeze so it doesn’t need ironing
And the mystery stain you forgot to pre-treat
Has vanished completely.
The joy of the bra that perfectly
Lifts your poor sagging boobs
In a gravity and age defying miracle
And feels like you are wearing nothing.
Or better still, the moment you
Step through the door and
Kick off the corporate heels
That are pinching your feet.
These are the small miracles
That only we understand and
They keep us afloat in a world that can be -
If you’ll pardon my French –
Just a little bit shit.
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