Head Girl by Susan Gilbert, September 2010
They are a rambunctious rabble,
gathered at one’s table.
One wonders if one has the mix right?
Geoffrey seems to have knuckled under one’s latest diktat,
even if he’s gone all Brussels on one.
Willie is.
Snooze inducing. The sensible wet side,
balanced by the mad monk, to one’s far right.
Sadly, Norman is nowhere in sight.
Maybe someone stole his bicycle?
Words will be had.
Oh my, Michael’s soft silky mane is so out of control.
All it needs is a good brushing, stroking, teasing, petting.
One might wind one’s fingers around those long luscious locks.
God, no! Cecil is flirting with one again. If one were not such a people person one would bash his head in with one’s hand bag. (It is a lethal weapon, registered with Her Majesty’s Secret Service.) Only to be used in the most desperate circumstances. Apparently, this does not count.
My. One is thirsty. Where is one’s husband when he is needed?
A cuppa would go down right well about now.
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