The day I grow up ...

I’ve made a promise to myself.
I will like anchovies – even olives.
I shall adore caviar, manage to walk
in four-inch heels.

Watch the whole
of Marathon Man and not hide
behind a cushion, petrified
of dentists evermore.
Take just two spoonfuls of sugar
instead of four in my tea.

Listen to Peter Grimes and not yawn,
progress from pitch-and-putt
to a pukka golf-course,
eat spaghetti without splashing the cloth
and the person sitting opposite me.
Refrain from running like a headless chicken,
whenever I see a wasp.

I’ll not believe in fairies anymore
or that West Side Story
will end up happy-ever-after
when I see it for the umpteenth time.
Won’t cry during Thelma and Louise
or squeeze that squidgy sea-weed
till it pops.

Shall go a bundle on oysters
and wild over snails,
get hooked on raw fish,
lose my passion for sugar-mice,
get high on liquor and tripe.

Realise that childhood
is a place, rather than a time.
Make up my mind to stay there
till I’m at least a hundred and five.