W.L.T.M.

‘Bubbly blonde’ – do you think that’s alright?
I mean, it’s bleached, but it makes me a blonde –
and it’s what they say in personal columns.
But what about ‘bubbly’, what does that mean?
I suppose it says, full of life.   I am …
after a drink or two.  You’re mad, Sal, my mates all say,
proper mad – a right scream.  (O, Prozac, thank you).
But do they want bubbly, or should I say:
‘Quiet – cooks a good Shepherd’s Pie?’

‘Forty something’ – my age not bust –
but, I’ll say with my chin up: like a good wine,
the home-made, rose-hip kind.
‘Divorced’ – yes, I’d better put that.  Shows I’m free
and not after a lay-by liaison –
not a neurotic and frigid spinster,
or lesbo with sudden change of heart.
Says I might know a trick or two.
(Says I know how the bastards lie,
I’m damaged goods and done some crying).

‘Wltm’ – but who would I like to meet?
Clint Eastwood in a desert storm,
to throw me over the front of his saddle?
Or Steve Martin, to laugh my M&S undies off …
or Robbie Williams to sing me asleep
with his long lashes brushing my cheek?
Yes, yes.  Robbie Williams with his big vibrato.
No, no, scrub that.  Here’s where I need adjectives:
‘kind, considerate, charming’ – ‘clean?’
Clean, yes, it comes down to that
at the end of the day, when I’m turning his socks
by the washing machine.

 

© Caroline Fox Betts 2010

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