Mum was mincing steak when it started
with Dad’s panicked shouts. She darted out
onto the lawn, freshly Flymoed, to see flames
dancing, him charging across the about-to-be-
christened patio like a bull in a wipeclean
plastic apron of a busty bikinied woman,
his legs zig-zagging, his beard ablaze,
soon tangled up in bunting. The cold tap
wouldn’t gush so he buried his head in the
washing-up and Mum grabbed the souvenir
tea towel to smother him, soaking the bride
and groom, swabbing his forehead with Lady Di.
Back from A&E and a raw shade of red –
redder than fly-blown beef patties,
his cheeks were much softer than hands
that do dishes. No eyebrows for a week,
he caught the highlights of her crushed
taffeta on repeat, cried as he sucked Salad Cream
through a straw, played proudly with his coleslaw,
all for monarchy, and a complexion to die for.
Paul Stephenson‘s most recent pamphlet is Selfie with Waterlilies (Paper Swans Press). Twitter @stephenson_pj
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