WednesdayII June

Breakfast with Grandpa

Wicker shaded light from a champagne-bottle lamp
Turned the electric blanket orange.
The blanket’s warmth steadily built to inferno status between sparky synthetic fibres.
Its extension cable, an ingeniously fused collection of threadbare 1940s wiring, posed a flagrant disregard for firemen regs.
‘Of course I am fine to drive’ – after two good reds and a failed eye test.
‘But you mustn’t let your long hair get in the machinery.’
'Nor should you let yourself flop in the furniture.'
'Flop' wasn’t the word.
‘Jump’ you said.

The fire hazard cord lay across threadbare 1940s carpet
Snaking its way to the blue blanket.
The baby blue of a baby’s basket
It smelt of talc and mildew.

Climbing in freshly ironed sheets the dilapidated springs sank in.
Beside the lamp sat old National Geographics and Reader’s Digests.
The odd Ian Flemming and a book of naughty rhymes.
On the mantelpiece sat two toy hackney carriages, a corporate gimmick and shells.

The next morning you’d set out the breakfast table as though expecting the queen.
With silver spoons and place mats.
First course was cornflakes.
Second was egg.
A boiled egg.
'Always go in the morning straight after breakfast,
The trick is to keep it regular.'

Downstairs the grandmother clock click-clicked to bong.
The ancient gramophone silently played a thousand records.
And molding books of paling print read their own words as sofas talked amongst themselves.