In The House

In The House…

Ambushed

Our house was much like any other house –
Conversations happened in the kitchen
Whilst huddled around the table
Near the tea supply.

Away from society and safe from retribution,
We carried on with our PG Tips revolution.


Thatcher, Blair, Major, Churchill and Brown
Frequent subjects of our deliberation.
“Yes, but’s,” were vociferated
Over the family teapot.

I was well-educated on the royal constitution:
Dad frequently referred to the ‘Institution’.


Neighbours and teachers were often discussed,
Along with business trips and jobsworths.
We had our private ‘in jokes’
Underpinned by sarcasm.

Debating the toss with poise and perfect elocution -
In case a working class accent invited social persecution.


We talked about our dreams for the future –
I wanted to be a nurse or maybe a writer.
Anything was possible if I tried my best,
It just required Determination.

Clasping a cuppa and supported by family contributions
Made it easier to determine the right solutions.


Then there was a time when we weren’t all present -
The house became known as my Mother’s house.
We began brewing tea in the cups,
Preferring to stand, restlessly.

In the house that had overseen my mental evolution,
Words like divorce permeated the air like pollution.


I worried about what was said in the house -
Words uttered that never left our kitchen;
Screamed behind double-glazing -
An ugly business.

So I sat at the table and starved myself to find absolution;
Dying in the house I was born in, desperate for a solution.