Sunday, April 03, 2005


I wrote this poem years ago when feeling somewhat stuck in the role of housewife and mother. I was actually quite lithe and gorgeous at the time albeit a bit sicked up on by babies. If you could see past the marmite smears on my top and the comfortable slippers I was really quite a catch and as a consequence spent alot of time daydreaming about what life could be like if I was allowed to act up.
All historical accounts of bohemian artists have their lives painted as full of intrigue with complex living arrangements that could include anything from an obliging servant to a goat. They smoked, drank and philandered their way through life then died probably too young, leaving behind great creative works we now worship and adore. Possibly though, their nearest and dearest were pleased to see them croak and make millions out of the art they left behind- payback time. For myself, I think I may leave this world one day with clear(ish) conscience and nice pile of ironing.
It won't fund anything for my family unless they can manage to sell it to the Tate Modern labelled 'Retentively Made Bed'. Good luck to them- it'll be my payback for years wasted in the kitchen...


I wannabe a babe,
With skinny little hips,
I wanna dance 'till dawn,
And feed my face on chips.

I wanna have a fag,
Lots of nicotine,
Filling up my lungs,
And all the spaces in between.

I wannabe so rich,
With stacks of Gucci shoes,
An Audi and a Volvo,
And half a dozen loos.

I wanna go abroad,
And find the real me,
Sipping icy ouzo,
On an Adriatic Sea.

I wanna have ten lovers,
Hot enough to burn,
Johnny Depp-ish look alikes,
All waiting for their turn.

I wanna- what's that love?
I'm ironing can't you see?
And making plans for dinner,
Just you, the kids, and me.