During the last boom and bust crisis

we decided to pull in our belts

and dispense with life coaches,

financial advisers, personal

bodyguards, crystal healers,

spiritual guides and gurus,

and take responsibility

for the children and pets ourselves.

 

She watered and fed the kiddies,

combed their hair into a parting,

read them bedtime stories

and scooped them up when they fell.

I watered and fed the animals,

kept apart antagonists,

undertook respectful burial

and composed an epitaph.

 

Whilst on a cheap vacation

we chanced upon a rabbit

who neither ran nor hopped away

when I stooped to pick him up.

His eyes wept and were swollen,

the fur was fairly crawling:

she said it's myxomatosis

and I threw him to the ground.

 

She argued for swift dismissal

to alleviate his misery;

I preached non-interference,

let nature take its course.

She said she'd do the job herself:

I was jealous of my territory

and dispatched him with a cricket bat,

the end was bloody slow.

 

Later on that holiday

we met a wildlife expert

who told us myxomatosis

isn't always fatal;

some develop immunity

and recover former vigour.

Now when the family play cricket

I can only field or bowl.