Another day dawned,

The sunbeams wrenching Lucille back into the land of the living.

A groan, a stretch and a chance fart heralded the day,

As the dust fairies spread their wings.

 

She reached for her stick,

Briefly recalling that Henry always used to bring it to her

Before he'd shuffled off,

One last time,

Fifteen months ago.

 

It hadn't been the first time he'd gone AWOL,

She recalled.

Previously it had been with rhythmic Rita,

She of the arching back

And the knees that met only in slumber.

 

No cap-in-hand return this time,

She mused,

As she filled the kettle, lit the gas,

And laid a teabag in the china cup.

 

They'd met in the roaring 20s,

And within weeks had moved into the house at the end of the bay,

Where she remained, sixty years later.

 

Their parties had become infamous,

Fuelled by champagne, opium and Benny Goodman,

With any scruples abandoned,

With gay abandon,

At the door.

 

Today, she reflected, the house saw little action,

Save for the weekly WI tea parties,

Visits by the grandchildren

And the occasional cucumber sandwiches

With the vicar.

 

The kettle whistled its tune

As she reached for her twist of foil,

And added a teaspoon of sparkle to her china cup.

 

Henry had always told her the importance of

Starting each day on a high.