'You're a chav'
I buy all my clothes, save underwear, from Oxfam and the same,
Ready made meals never see my kitchen -
Instead large pans of boiling Epicureanesque broth and grain
Bubble and steam ready for their little freezer boxes, neatly labeled.
I read dusty little unshiny secondhand books; Lacan, Foucault, Rumi, too many to mention.
There’s even a little Brian Cox and Greene in there for good measure -
Just to keep a hand, up in the sky, and in the latest invention
Hopefully telling us why Schrödinger’s cat is such an awkward little bugger.
My last trip to the hairdresser was in 1998,
Too late to salvage the gradually thinning and graying hair
Dyed now from a 3 quid box, which admittedly I hate,
And *trimmed* by the long suffering, semi bald, easily annoyed husband.
We live in the desert in Arizona over the winter time, never been to Spain
On return to the UK, the choice is a 100 year old cottage
Cheap, damp, neglected, characterful but needy. Not a lot to gain
From a modern pokey little box for 250k plus for us.
I have a lovely, delightful daughter, 15 and a half.
She’s the apple of my eye, a beautiful freckle faced golden haired princess
Who brings fresh enthusiasm and soul to the whole world. She did make me laugh,
When we were sat on the sofa one night watching a programme about an ice sheet in Antartica,
And she turned to me and said ‘Mummy, you’re a chav’.