Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

       Forty-three - forty-four - forty-five - forty-six!  Now that must be a record.  Amazed they didn’t send a nurse to open them for me:  ‘Poor old dear, there’s no knowing what she might get up to with that paper-knife’.  Poor old dear, my arse.  And as for the hamper, well!  Champagne and smoked salmon,  I ask you.  Thing is, they make it so damn obvious:  ‘Get the old bird drunk, fill her full of fancy tripe, by the time we get round there she’ll be too far gone to argue’.  Huh, must think I was born yesterday.  Still, waste not want not, eh!  Steady now girl - just one more little glass.  Mmm - what a way to go! Back  in  the  nineties,  when  Phil  and  I  first  began  living together, picnicking was still a relatively pleasant pastime. We’d grab that old basket of mine and head off down to the Lakes.  No Virtual Penguins to contend with in those days - just the odd couple of fly-fishers and a dozy little snack bar.  On a cold day we’d wind up the windows, crack open an old thermos flask and - well, suffice to say we whiled away many a steamy hour waiting for that coffee to cool    

       Now where’s that blessed bottle got to?  Ah, here we are - easy does it - there!  There’s life in the old bitch yet.  Huh, the old bitch she says.  Once upon a time it was considered nothing for a woman to reach a hundred.  Nowadays you’re barely within sight of your sixtieth bash when along comes the dreaded envelope.  Then, before you know it, the Big Day’s arrived.  And all you get to soften the blow is a bumper batch of cards, a hamper for six and a note from the kids saying:  ‘Happy Birthday, Mum. Be round about one.  Can’t wait to see you!’  Well, I reckon we can, can’t we girl?

       Good grief, that’s never the doorbell!  Can’t be them yet, surely?    I  must  have  dropped  off  with  all  that  blasted bubbly -  haven’t had time to fix my hair or anything!  God damn those kids.   I mean, if I were half-way there already - raving, incontinent, crippled with arthritis - I might well be more inclined to cooperate.   Comes to something when you’re penalised for staying in one piece.  Trust the Euro-Youth bunch to come up with that God-awful bill.  Had the kids been closer to their old Mum’s age than that of their blessed government, they’d have voted against it, you can be sure of that.

       Pair of blasted hypocrites.  So much for selective cloning.  Just look at them out there!  Flapping about like a couple of vultures, pacing the driveway in their hired black suits.  Still, better get a move on I suppose.  Can’t afford to annoy them, not today.  I told them, I said look, until six-fifteen this evening I’m still only fifty-nine, and, forgive me for being a killjoy, but I’m damned if I’m going to be done out of my final allotted few hours merely for your convenience.   Of course, they just blushed and said that what with my birthday falling on a Friday, and the local Exit office being shut for maintenance on the Monday, well, we’d be forced to leave it till the Tuesday.  And that would be breaking the law, wouldn’t it?  ‘Scared they might try and prosecute me, are you?’ I said, laughing. ‘I don’t know about handcuffs, but they’d need a good strong glue’.  Cruel, I know, but I figured they deserved it.  Not that it made the slightest bit of difference of course -  Christ, there goes that wretched bell again. ‘OK darlings, Mummy’s coming!’  At least give me a chance to finish me bottle - Mmm - there we go - down the hatch!  Many happy returns, eh girl?

       I guess it’s about time we made a wish.