"DO YOU HAVE CROMWELL?" (My poem about a family at the Treglos Hotel, Constantine Bay, Cornwall, 2009...)

 “Do You Have Cromwell?”

Cloned from her maternal parent

She lounged, her smile prohibited, of course.

More care was taken with the accent

Than with the smug visage

And simply careless make-do hair.

Even her dog barked with an upper class Woof.

“Do you have Cromwell?” her Mater asked 

The grandchild (misbehaviour unknown, of course.)

More care was taken with the adults

Than with the flabby frame

And simply unkempt childish hair.

Even Grandpapa barked with superiority, aloof.

“Number 34, Edward the Seventh!” the Pater 

declared

And cast down the triumphant card, of course.

More care was taken with his neck fringe

Than with the balding pate

And simply invented cartoon nose.

Even the Grandma barked noisily too. (So uncouth…)

At some stage she was going to have to gird its loins

For the Pooch would be bouncing off walls.

More care was taken of the pet’s well being

Than with any familial love

And simply heartfelt personal warmth.

Even an article about bees absorbed her, in truth.

“Have you both got the same omelette?”

“Which do you prefer, Daddy?”

More care was taken with packing the golf clubs

Than with the spawned waif

And simply loosening the maternal manacles.

Even the child was merely one of the troops.

The ordeal over, the frown increased in intensity,

Her best friend would soon be caged.

More care was taken in grumbling and survival

Than with enjoying a holiday

And simply easing personal stress.

Even the offspring was jumping through hoops…

Pete Ray

July 2009…

A family at the very proud and smart Treglos Hotel in Constantine Bay, Cornwall…

Rather snobbish accents oozed from their nasal passages. 

Speech was seemingly military with no familiarity, bar one bare smile from the dog-owner, the daughter of the older couple and of course the parent of the child, who had just returned from the toilet, which she had been expected to ask her mother for 

permission to visit. 

A card game of Top Trumps was in progress, involving English history, by a family no doubt rueing the loss of Empire. 

 It was their last day at Constantine Bay and it was raining. 

They ate omelettes. And my final view of her was when she regaled a porter, who was suffering her 

vehicle loading. 

The dog cage was in place, the golf clubs lay in the car-park and she was not happy. 

I was though… 

She had said that she would have to gird her loins and take out the dog, which would be bouncing off walls and her mother read an article about the suffering of bees and persisted with a need to find an umbrella.

When the question was asked about one of the cards was heard rather loudly, 

“Do you have Cromwell?” I very nearly wet myself. 

I was descending the stairs one day and she was on the ground floor and suddenly she bellowed 

“SIT…” 

I did so. On the stairs.

“Oh…” I called down to her. “You meant the dog…”

She was not amused…  

OUT ON THE LAWN...