Monday Afternoon...

Darjeeling and the best bone-china,
reserved for special times like these...
ensconced in our front room – reminiscing
with friends, remembering the old days.

The doorbell rings. I go...

A bloke in the porch from Anglian Water,
or so he had me believe; a leak, reported
by a neighbour; he barges in – urgent-like,
to turn off our supply.

If I was thinking, I’d have recalled
that the stopcock’s in the driveway.
It didn’t dawn on me at all; not
till the wife said, later.

In the time it takes to boil a kettle...
for him to start a chat, cuppa in hand,
about West Ham’s relegation – his mate,
who I never did see the goings of, nips
down our sideway – jemmies open
a back window. The rest’s history.

Our bedroom – trashed. That night,
we flounder; end up beached in our own
front-room – staring at the ceiling.

“Close your eyes,” I tell her. She whispers
she hears something outside.” Funny –
I do too. “Try and get some sleep, love.
It's only the wind.'

‘It happened so quick, love. Forgive me,’
says some silly old fart who used to be a man,
I tell her in a kiss. So what? Even if she did,
I would never forgive myself.

The police said they’d do all they could;
try to trace my naval medals – but not
to hold out hope for the cash we’d saved
for Christmas.

Yet again, suppose we got it back, twofold,
it would never replace what they took...
When you’re pushing ninety, and the missus
is eighty-two, and it’s just an ordinary,
Monday afternoon.