Holiday series Vogon Poetry part 2 – Middle Class Mums

The sun rises over Little Learners Preschool.

The sea glitters in the distance.

It sits perkily;

A converted house surrounded by well-heeled character homes.

 At 8.30:am sharp it comes alive.

A gleaming row of chariots purr alongside this venerable institution.

No rudimentary metal and iron beasts in this line-up of elaborate conveyances.

Only the latest modern day transportation technology;

The names distinctive and European: Volkswagon, Audi, BMW.

A nimble Mercedes darts into a gap vacated by a towering SUV.

A line-up of Pampered Cleopatras

Bend lithely from elevated cabs.

They commence unfolding diminutive occupants in Pumpkin Patch and glowing good health.

From the rear of this chariot: Goldilocks,

From that: Little lord Fauntleroy.

Their Sisters in-Arms, the Embattled Joan of Arc’s:

Descend from their chariots.

And extracting the heir or heiress in question:

They battle through a throng of Nonchalant Nannies.

To deliver their charge to the awaiting Goodhearted Governesses.

Cloaks are shaken down.

Colourful bags placed in lockers.

Sufficiently garbed for the conditions and smothered in sunscreen,

Goldilocks and Little Lord Fauntleroy skip outside to the playground.

One by one, each Pampered Cleopatra and Embattled Joan of Arc steps back into her chariot.

Cleopatra departs with younger siblings for a day of immersion in matters domestic.

Returning to her palace

She steps over the threshold.

A smile first.

She can smell her children:

Each distinctive in their odour.

Girls smell like strawberry shortcake and glitter;

Boys bitter and green.

She surveys her domain with satisfaction.

A Little lord Fauntleroy tucked under her arm.

Abruptly dismay transforms her face into a countenance of distress.

Little Lord Fauntleroy

Is set down.

And amuses himself determinedly.

With the latest,

Lovingly hand-crafted,

Ye Olde Fashioned Wooden Toy.

Cleopatra disappears.

To be replaced by a steely-faced navy,

Girding her loins for a day of hard work;

She maketh strong her arms.

A flurry of activity commences.

Resolutely she scrubs and washes.

She folds and tidies,

Bleaches and dusts;

Nimbly she considers the floor.

Snarling inaudibly in its den:

That most lizard like of beasts awaits.

She confronts and retrieves it.

Here Be Dysons.

Little Lord Fauntleroy naps.

Cleopatra prepares herself some lunch.

She sits down to replenish her energy.

Not too much food or rest ‘mind’.

Inside her pretty coiffed  head;

Business plans ferment and writhe.

One final task.

Busying herself in the heart of her home:

Pots hanging above her head;

She extracts some filo pastry and spinach from the freezer of her humming Fisher and Paykel.

Gourmet meal prepared;

She lovingly lingers over her hearth.

In towers of chrome

Embedded in trenches of paperwork,

Joan of Arc prepares herself to do battle.

She rolls up her sleeves and stamps the ground.

Snorts and gets to work on the recalcitrant partner.

At morning tea she prepares

A latte and smiles at the temp.

Her child never far from her mind.

Another down the hallway;

Careworn from the fight:

To get her proposal accepted.

Her shoulders lift and droop

As she thinks of her appointment with HR.

It’s time for the afternoon school run.

The chariots line up for the return journey.

Bustling and jostling in the exodus;

Cleopatra and Joan of Arc exchange banter.

One poor Sot breathes over another who recoils;

From the breath of lunch-time indulgence and fire.

Looks and looks again:

Satisfying herself that she couldn’t possibly;

Have smelt the residue of sneaky lunch-time craving.

Copyright Monique 2010 In case anyone cares enough to rip it off.

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