State visit

London again for lunch at the RAC club, blipped the last time I went. The weather was mixed with sun and showers so it was hard to choose between a wet pavings pic in front of the National Gallery and this one of the flags in the Mall. Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, president of Indonesia, is in town, hence the red and white flags. I also liked one of Admiralty Arch (it was not far from here I used to meet spies). You'll be relieved to see I have not the slightest thing provocative or controversial to utter or blip today, at least I don't think so, I'm never quite sure.

So maybe there's room for a poem - don't groan, it's optional! This one is about great aunt Gladys who wasn't keen on washing up. Who is?

Remember the Alamo

Auntie Gladys could sit on her hair,
She did sometimes for fun,
But wore it mostly in a bun to keep it neat.
Her husband, Uncle Arnold, had a bubblecar
But never took it very far.
It was German, a Heinkel,
A company that made bombers in the war,
According to the few who knew,
They called it a Trojan,
And some said Uncle Arnold was the same,
Living with Aunt Gladys,
Who never washed the dishes after tea.

She said instead she'd rather go to
Bed than do the thing she hated,
Scrubbing pans and drying plates.
You never know, she said, I might be
Dead by morning; what a waste to
Wash up now in haste to clean
When dirty pots can sit unseen all through the night.

If Uncle Arnold disagreed, he didn't say
But shook his head and let her have her way.
The washing up was not for him,
Sink in arms and arms in sink,
He knew that joke by heart and so did she,
She told it oft enough.

He drove his bomber car and
Auntie sat there too sometimes,
With painted finger-nails,
Preserved for showing off,
Encased in rubber gloves when called to wash
Those dishes once a day.

That's how it was until she passed away one night.
Whatever would the neighbours think,
If she'd left dirty dishes in the sink,
My mother said when Arnold called,
I think she was appalled, my mum,
That Gladys could have left so much undone.

I wonder if she'd done the washing up?
Mum said, that's all she said, in truth
When Gladys died, not rest in peace
Or broken-hearted prayers for
Her departed sister, who never had a blister
Scratch or burn or took a turn
At wiping, that, she said, was just as bad
As washing pots, no they could wait,
Inviting fate each night to roll the dice
But Gladys knew they'd never catch her washing twice.

And so she died a happy aunt,
Free from Uncle Arnold and the bubble of her life,
Housewife in name, rebel by nature,
Her Alamo, the washing up,
She drew her line in the sink.