Sundays then were slow, the sounds were ritual.
Mikey at the radio, Nell starting the soup.
We wake with sore heads and secrets solemnly sworn,
jokes that only we can get and orange blazers thrown
in the corner for the next weekend.
We look older in shoulder pads, or we think they fool the doormen.
Orange juice and peach schnapps, Abrakebabra for something in a bun.
Olive at the juke box taps Independent Love Song.
We know everyone in town, or we imagine that part.
Payphones are dialled around, the numbers off by heart.
Comps and dating at The Queen's Old Castle.
So begins the waiting for the night to happen.
The usual fight in sway outside Burgerland,
a salutational wave from one in the fighting act.
See?, Didn't I say we weren't short of contacts!
The heron on the fountain perches on the top-tier seat
and So Long Marianne trills from the busker on Prince's Street.
Saturday replaced by another morning after.
We wake late but in time for the starter,
always creamy soup on a well-laid table.
Mikey with his pipe and tunes,
Nell dressed up under her apron.
Sundays then in Mount Pleasant Avenue.
(Very happy memories flooded back to me recently when I reconnected with an old friend. Olive Staunton and I were primary and secondary school friends. There were a few years when I imagine her mother wondered if they'd ever see a Sunday again that didn't involve me waking up in their house. My aim for my household would be to reach the hospitality heights of the Stauntons' but I'd settle for getting half-way there.)
