CHIPS - Flash fiction with a difference

You know how a train of thought develops out of the blue and you can't get your mind to leave that track? Well, that's what this week's photo prompt did to me. I didn't see the snow, though in the summer heat here some snow would be bliss - I zoomed right in on the little stalls, which reminded me of a poem I wrote a while ago for the Queen's Jubilee.
So please bear with me, enjoy my poem, and forgive the fact that I've outstripped the word count by A LOT!
In my defence, I am in the throes of packing up to relocate from Tenerife to England after fifteen years, and my head's up my ****!
Thanks as always to https://rochellewisofffields.wordpress.com/  for the photo prompt -

CHIP  STALL

My Dad has a chip stall right outside the Tower

– of London, you dolt, not Blackpool –

and now I can actually see over the counter

I help out sometimes after school.

The tourists will stop for two quids-worth of chips

 – “London prices,” Dad says if they moan –

and some of them want them wrapped up in The Times

instead of a grease-paper cone.

Mum’s batter is made with the very best beer

and is famous throughout London town –

a few TV chefs have offered a fortune

but Mum won’t write anything down.

Some weekends the queue to see the Crown Jewels

can stretch for a very long way –

Dad turns on a fan to waft out the smell

and we turn a good profit those days.

Last Sunday I wanted to watch the procession,

but Dad said the Queen’s Jubilee

would bring in the cash and he needed my help –

I could watch it that night on TV.

So there I was, serving the ketchup and salt,

when the whole queue went quiet and still,

and That Voice said, “Those chips smell delicious – We really

must have some - please send Us the bill.”

Mum curtsied and Dad took his cap off and bowed;

“On the house, Ma’am – I couldn’t charge You.”

So I salted Her Majesty’s chips - and took a quick

photo to prove it was true.

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