Life seems eerily simple,
Sat here in this faux French bistro.
Ping! 'Oh piss off' comes a sudden interjection,
Cutting through tacky French ballads a misdirected dejection.
'PPI ads by text? The bloody cheek!'
As he rattles on, prattles on.
Something about mortgages?
I regret to say I've failed to listen.
As passers by continue on,
Strolling, jogging, trudging along.
As I write my musings I hear further muttering.
Something about the theatre?
I begin to listen a little closer - did he say hotel?
This sounds suspiciously like a romantic get away.
Or an impromptu run away?
What of the children,
My maternal, metaphorical umbilical asks?
'They're fine!' he retorts, almost snorts.
He could've said 'never mind the kids - social services have a three strike policy.'
'Your mother will be fine' he adds, trying to sound less of a cad.
He almost has me swayed, pictures of our chaotic household fade.
Into scenes of fine wine and fine dining.
Cheekily booking in with no baggage, bar a stray dummy.
A smashed biscuit for Mummy.
The blushes are spared.
Rare moments like these are how my handbag came to look like this.
Hand in hand, a stray kiss.
The circle comes round and we're in this bistro.
And to me, it's bliss.
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