This poem was written when televisions were solid and my children were small.
If the telly top was turreted,
And the dining table domed,
And the mantelpiece a masterpiece,
Too good to keep at home.
If the sofa sighed beneath great spires,
And the windowsills weren’t wide;
I wouldn’t keep you at the door,
But usher you inside.
If the hall was high and hallowed,
And the kitchen clearly clinical;
Each top, however miniscule,
Wore minaret or pinnacle.
To help with the experience,
I would charge you 50 pence
Just to view my rich abode.
Still the style of my furniture
Cannot be unique.
And of the surfaces they’re on,
I dare hardly speak.
For one unholy mess
That drives me up the creek.
So, though I’m highly honoured,
Please go and come next week.