I am not sure whether it was
The burnt banana bread
Or the under-spiced
Over-baked biscuits
That did it
But I am thoroughly
Sick-as-a-dog
Fed up to the back teeth
And beyond
With the schoolyard
B*llsh*t bakesale
Not just the politics
The cut and thrust
Of who gets to bake
And who gets to buy
At the thrice termly
Repeating misery
That is the fundraiser
Conspicuous, competitive,
Consumption
For a school committee
With more money
Than common sense
Soliciting donations:
Baked goods; sweets;
Good-as-new toys;
Dictating requirements:
Own clothes; costumes;
Odd shoes; socks;
Random coloured shirts;
Hair ribbons; headgear;
We all pay for a day
Out of uniform
Or suffer culinary torture
Face it, ladies
I can actually cook
But my kitchen will never be
One hundred percent
Gluten or nut-free
I don’t want to poison
Anyone (by accident)
And I resent the waste
Of good ingredients
This charade entails
Let’s just forget it
The whole in-crowd
Phenomenon
What are we, twelve?
Phooey to the PTA!
Us working mums have
Bigger problems
Than dusting off a dirndl
To play at housewife
On a weekday afternoon
Though what you choose
To do with your own time
Is none of my business.
And that was my
Considered, rational,
Personal perspective
Before we ate the
Glitter-encrusted
Muffin of doom
That somehow gave
The entire family
Galloping gut rot
(Even the cat)
Don’t ask me how
I no longer care
We have run out of
Buckets, bog roll,
And fresh underwear
Seriously,
Screw the whole thing!
I am switching to
Online donations
At least they don’t
Require that I provide
Correct change
Nor that I invest my
Hard earned paycheck
In industrial quantities
Of bathroom bleach
And antacids
Only to be sneered at
By the clique of
Suzie home-maker
And sycophants
Holding court
At the school gate
Judging me and mine
For our contribution
To the latest cause
The loud purring Of a sensitive soul Rumbles across my lap A gentleman-mouser Whose claws are rarely Sheathed in my flesh Save for those few Accidental motions. He pauses in his Hypnotic kneading Of careful paws Twitches a whisker Opens a lazy eye We are content Devoted Familiar and Current Provider of ear-scratches Precious moments spent together Do not last as long As they once did Those rare islands Of near-silence I try to spend Writing. Such a distraction Is sadly unacceptable In company My failure to stroke Soft furry egos While fingers Play over lettered keys And coffee cools At a careless elbow Lead to gentle taps Polite, then more insistent I frown and mutter Trying to shake loose Some old ideas From new forehead creases Transmit them to my dusty screen Before the next Set of demands is issued By the charming pout Of the other House Tyrant Whose three-year-reign Continues to sway The working lives Of all her subjects. It is not enough. I cannot please all Of my many masters Not this day. As gentle snores fade to yawns I sift through the tired Dog-eared card catalogue Housed temporarily for safekeeping Within my rapidly emptying skull Brain cycling faster The vocalisation Begins in earnest Close behind my ear “Miaouw!” He is starting to insist “Pssst! Shush!” It is a futile gesture To try to silence An old friend The search continues There are paws on my shoulder Tapping, prodding A hint of sharpness A gentle shove Hot breath on my neck Can I find a verbal noun, Subclause, or synonym To convey my sense Of panic at the first stirrings Of any sleeping creature Under four feet But still a giant? Too late. “Mummy!” I hiss my discomfort At the sudden perforation Of my thigh. Time’s up once again.
What is the proper etiquette
For declining to bypass security
Measures by walking through
Perspex barriers two-by-two?
I don’t recall, but forcing the issue
By swiping your card made me
Choose – to hesitate and lock
Us both out, or to cheat
And leave you too little time
To cross the line and make it
To the toilet. In my defence
The cat woke me at 4am
Breaking through the bedroom
Door, my lunch leaked in my
Handbag, forcing me to alter
My commute, omitting the exercise
Portion of the early part of my day
So I was barely awake
And very keen to pee
Somewhere other than the
Carpeted corridor. In short, true
Gallantry’s all very well, but
Don’t do it again.
My bladder may not support
The dilemma.
The girl that cooks bakes cake and pies
And plays at house and tells no lies
That can’t be wriggled into line
Parading truth and saving time
The girl that cooks makes soup and stews
That chase away the taste of blues
Her kitchen hums with spitting fat
She works and cleans and strokes the cat
The girl that cooks whips up dessert
And bandages the parts that hurt
When all the world is making war
She’s tossing aubergines in flour
The girl that cooks is canny, chaste
Her sauces never go to waste
No eggs are dropped, no milk gets spilt
Her apron strings are edged with gilt
The girl that cooks with fiery flame
Whose every nuance tastes the same
Is ready with another dish
To feed you meaty, wholesome fish
The girl that cooks is clever too
She knows what suits won’t always do
When with a smirk upon your lips
You peck her brow and grip her hips
The girl that cooks in every room
Will not be left alone so soon
While every mouthful, reels you in
You’re caught within her roasting tin
The girl that cooks must take the blame
For ruining your filthy name
Enticing you with food so fair
You hung your hat and took a chair
The girl on the desk
At the swimming pool
Did her job to the letter
To keep out the riff-raff
Insisting he prove
They had made him an offer
Their kind invitation
A member plus one
Gets in free this week
For the duration
Of the heatwave
But the generous proof
Remaining at home
In his humid back pocket
He declined the demand
And slunk away
Foul-mouthed consonants
Heating the air
Climbing the hill to home
With the girl
Who wasn’t good enough
For his gym to admit
To work off his sweat
With a body count
In the higher pixels
From the padded throne
Of his living room couch
He is still shooting aliens now
But in time she may
Venture to mention
The shower upstairs
Appears lonely for company
As she adds subtle cubes
To his dinner glass
And pacifies the cat
My cat is not a member
Of the RSPB
He sits on the sill
Sunning himself
Watching and waiting
For fledglings to flop
And fall out of their nest.
The robin that visits
My hanging bistro
For a quick and seedy
Beakful of millet
Pales at his shadow
And flutters away
Avoiding the sharp claws
And sadistic purr
Of the resident bouncer.
The bird-like appetites
Of my feathered clientele
Vanish, as tense and flighty
They fall prey to silence
The predator’s presence
Betrayed by the twitch
Of a whisker
The gently flicking tail
Of the sleek, well-groomed
Panther in the window
Katherine Shirley 