Christmas Aunties

Auntie Elsie, not quite a Chelsea pensioner

but can’t see too clear

or mention a fight in a local car park

without waxing vocal about men a lot

and not relaxing,

says aardvark when she means ardent,

bless the workings of her head,

and sergeants instead of sardines.

Auntie Jean scavenges in the fridge

for gherkins and sangria

and challenges her blistered and ganglier sister Fay

to a game of bridge.

For shame!

She can’t be a blameless wench and play

on the garden bench instead of my bedroom ledge,

damn her,

pardon my French and sledgehammer annoyance.

Auntie Ida attempts clairvoyance and warbles

by the baubles. Can’t she pack it in,

the din, the racket? She tempts

fate and stuff

with a plate of plum duff and sometimes rum.

Auntie Elizabeth witters and fibs

in Citizen Smith Women’s Lib shibboleth

with murky myths

over the turkey and trimmings

and grants me a bit of sherry if

I sit on the sofa

and act very perky

but distract less.

Auntie Jess always stands

in hallways, hands on hips

and honour

on her lips.