Lied back

Eyes staring upwards

At the Soft Cell poster

Awkwardly tacked to the ceiling

But already beginning to curl at the edges

 

The sound of crockery clattering

Gently switches me back to reality

The familiar sound of the pot mixing bowl

Rocking back and forth

As Mum beats the eggs with alarming ferocity

(No mechanical aids in sight to whizz the mix into fluffy peaks within 18 seconds)

Sunday

Is on its way

 

It’ll be sandwiches

Jelly and custard

Fairy cakes

Potato cakes

Dripping with butter

Hot and golden brown

 

For years I’ve done this

So I hoof it down the stairs

Eager to lick the bowl

Hoping no-one’s got there first

Mum’s disappeared into a bowl of suds

But has left the bowl and wooden spoon

On the kitchen table

 

 

Hurry up and get it eaten!

She urges

Smiling

I smile back

She’s perspiring

Worn out with doing

I scoff the lot down

As if I’m ravenous

Then stand at her side

And dry

While she washes