It’s ‘time for tea!’, I say with glee,
And then the shit hits the dinner-time fan.
And I’ve interrupted an episode of Driver Dan.
Dinner isn’t even ready, and the winging’s become steady,
‘Mother you forget, I’m no fan of the courgette.
It’s high-chair carnage, with a snot-laden garnish,
As she decides she’s allergic to everything green.
She’ll scream ’til she’s sick, at the thought of one lick,
Of a pea or a sprout or runner bean.
As I chuck another meal away, I can’t help but pray,
Time for your food, and I’m not in the bastard mood,
As the fish fingers are met with a grunt.
I take a deep breath, and smile through the mess,
She’s being a right little… runt.
At 5pm, I’ll be hitting the tea-time vodkas*.
*and gin. obviously.