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 -
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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