Aunt Win is a hundred,
telegram from the Queen,
bit of a do
in a local pub
half-filled glasses of warm fizz
and she's a jolly good fellow.

Aunt Win wasn't always Win.
she was Winnie growing up,
but she married well.
Good bone structure
opens a lot of doors,
gave her choices.

She chose an accountant no less
and became the doyen
of middle class suburbia.
Nice semi, in a good area
just the right sort of people.
Bingo was replaced by bridge.

Saturday nights in the Ballroom Tower,
slow, slow, quick quick slow
and home again in the Rover.
During the week, twinset and pearls
worn as a badge of office.
Her sister in law muttered darkly
“She’s got ideas above herself that one”
as she nursed Winnie’s mother through
the final stages of cancer.
Win couldn't do that you see,
she would have had to go back
to the stone terraced rows
and become Winnie again.

Whilst Mother’s Union,
morning coffee and afternoon tea
kept Win busy
her husband sought his fancies elsewhere.
He was forgiven of course
superficially.
Her boys preferred the warmth
of their aunt’s house
where the chatter was nonstop, the laughter loud
and you could even put your elbows on the table.

It’s just Aunt Win and her sister in law now,
the others have long departed
apart from a son
who doesn't feel the need
to return a love he never received.
Her sister in law calls
“Hurry up our Winnie
we’ll miss that bus”
Aunt Win winces
and quickens her step.
So vulgar shouting in the street.