Our House
(not sure of the year I wrote it, sometime in the late 70s or early 80s)
The way of life in our house is terrible and strange.
The way my menfolk treat it is enough to quite derange
the most strong-willed of mortals, of whom I am not one.
Sometimes I think that there's no way that I can carry on.
For instance, take the bathroom; the things they do in there!
How can it take an hour or more to shower and wash your hair?
I never have to count the hours spent showering, not me,
I just look at the bills for gas and electricity!
And daily, so it seems to me, the cry goes up: "More soap"
or "toilet rolls" or "toothpaste" . A millionaire might cope
but I'm no millionaire I'm just a housewife, middle aged,
some days are good, some not so bad, some days I just feel caged.
A home? I tell you, not this place, it's just a boarding house.
I feed three dogs, two cats, myself, three teenagers, one spouse.
They come in, wash and change, go out; the humans do I mean -
at least the animals don't use the bathroom to get clean.
They want to eat at such unearthly hours; I go to bed
at midnight so they help themselves in order to be fed
at two or three o clock (am). What would they do without
the deep freeze and the microwave? Starve without a doubt.
And what about the washing-up they leave me day by day?
Stacks of it and not just in the kitchen I might say.
The latest thing is towels; there's never one around
but no-one's ever had them, they simply can't be found.
It started with the boxing - they need a towel to shower -
and now they've joined the sports club to give them yet more power!
Power to dance the night away, or whatever else they do
when they go out, all spruced up, and in my t-shirts too!
They run out in my jogging suit, they walk out in my jeans
I'm glad I take size five in shoes, not tens, twelves or thirteens!
And while I'm on the subject has anybody had
my hairbrush, plastic, white, no? It really is too bad.
I must admit my husband isn't like the other three.
He works quite hard throughout the day and spends most nights with me.
Oh no, what he does to the house is quite a different matter;
he calls it home improvement. His dreams I hate to shatter
But all he does just seems to me to make a bigger mess.
Is this the way, I ask myself, to wedded happiness?
A room without a ceiling, and one without a door
and two more rooms, I have to add, without a proper floor!
The kitchen sink has lost its tap, we have to use a wrench,
and damp rot in the cupboards gives the place a musty stench.
We've a roof that lets in water when it should chance to rain,
a garden full of rubble - it's a wonder I'm still sane.
The fruit trees are all gone now, cut down to make more space
to build on an extension lacking any charm or grace.
To add to the confusion, like sad metallic scars
there stand the rusting relics of abandoned bikes and cars.
I wouldn't want a servant to help me make it through;
just co-operation from the family would do.
Well, I've got it off my chest, I've had a little grouse
And now it's time to go and try to do things with our house.
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