Long ago, it was the wife who would push him
-‘These are our sort of people,’ she would say-
To take that job, which he couldn’t manage
And came home each evening utterly spent.
Oh, the ordeal of dinners with the boss
And Councillor Twitface for Sunday tea,
When he would have preferred to mooch around
And watch the football or listen to jazz.
That certain kind of snobbery has gone,
Maybe, as old suburbia has waned;
Now megabucks and techie talk prevail
And barbecues replace the awkwardness
Of whispered meals. The old aristocrats
Cling on, heading home for the dinner bell.