The Ballad of Bob and Mary

***TO BE READ IN A BROAD NORTHERN ENGLISH ACCENT***

Bob and Mary live in a semi.

They spend most every evening watching repeats on the telly.

Burying their heads in digital sand.

Bob sups his beer, thinks ‘Aint life grand’.

He belches, reveling in its echo, tone and strength

then half-heartedly apologises, to save the argument.

Mary is repulsed but merely gives a tut.

It’s not she doesn’t care, quite the opposite but

after all these years of chastising and nagging

her enthusiasm for home improvement is flagging.

Once Mary would have been described a dolly bird.

Now she is just bird-like with a faintly tinted perm.

She’s been smoking menthol superkings sine she turned 21.

They still make her feel sophisticated, though she won’t admit that to anyone.

It hasn’t been a bad life and she’s not one to complain,

but she thinks she’d do it differently if she had her time again.

She liked to have been an air hostess and travelled all over the world

or worked on one of them cruise ships, or been one of Pan’s People’s girls.

Just something a little more glamorous and less like egg and chips.

She gives poor Bob a sideways look and purses coral stained lips.

They’re a staple in their local. Bob drinks stout.

Mary likes a babycham and brandy when she’s out.

Bob’s not fond of Mary’s friends. He hates their gossiping ways.

Mary whispers too softly. He misses half the things she says.

At half past ten, habitually they totter up the road.

Arm in arm, step in step, it’s not a long trip home.

“Bob” says Mary, “do you ever wonder if there’s more than this?”

“Mary” Bob says, “I dearly love you, but you’re pissed.

When you’ve had more than three you know you get all philosophical-like

I’ve told you before about your limits, it’s too much at my time of life.”

He straightened his cap and Mary just sighed

then she looked up and saw how soft were his eyes.

“I know love” she said “and you’ve given me plenty

but sometimes I feel all used up and empty”.

“Oh, duck! We’ve had such good times, remember when we were young?

All those trips to the seaside, those summers full of sun?

Annual foreign holidays to the Costa this and that,

strolling, licking ice cream in a kiss me quick hat.

It’s only right you’re tired when you’ve lived as much as us.

That’s why they give us pensioners free rides on the bus”.

She squeezed his hand and sadly smiled.

They walked in silence a little while.

Then, as they reached their little front gate

Bob’s caught Mary’s arm and said “Wait.”

“What?” said Mary startled, spun into Bob’s waiting palms

“While there’s moonlight, we’ve no music but we’ve love and romance,

haven’t we darling?”

Mary’s heart flew like a flock of starlings.

As she lifted her arms Mary was glad

that night she’d remembered to wear her Tena pad.

She murmured “Let’s dance” and Bob stepped a tango

then screwed up his face and yelled “Ee! Me lumbago!”

Mary cried “Bob! You poor old thing!

Let me give you a hand. Do you want me to ring

for the doctor?” “No, no,” he said

“the best medicine for me will be us in bed”.

“Oh, give over” she playfully teased

“between your back and my dodgy knees

we’ll be lucky to make it up the stairs.

Thank god the hot water bottles are already prepared.”

She helped Bob to bed and fetched him his pills.

Unplugged the cords to save on the bills.

Locked all the doors and turned off the lights.

Got into bed and they kissed goodnight.

In well practiced harmony they both removed their teeth

put them into one glass and pushed it out of reach.

They snuggled into decades long impressions of their love

on a mattress worn equally below as above.

As Mary’s dreams encroached she saw flashes of her life

From after and before she became a mam and wife.

A joyful tear slid down her nose

and she reached her cold feet towards Bob’s warm toes.

“Bob, why don’t we take the grandkids out?

Down to the pier and tell them all the stories about

when you and me was courting

and the lido? and your car?

And that bar that you fought in?

Let’s see how they are.”

Bob just grunted but Mary didn’t mind.

She knew her face was laughter-lined.

For it hadn’t been a bad life, and she’s not one to complain

and she wouldn’t really do it differently

if she had her time again. 

31

My body is my body. I’m not bothered what you think of it.

It’s carried me through all these years no matter what I’ve thrown at it.

The marks on my flesh; the scars on my organs

They’re trophies from my battles with the metaphoric gorgons.

I’m feeling freed from the cycles of love and hate and love and hate

Now I’ve relinquished thinking on self-comparative debate.

Some people get my name wrong and they pronounce Georgina

But I’m not diminutive in stature or demeanor.

Dubbed as weird, mad, aggressive and crazy

Because the clarity I see, to them, is hazy.

Censored by illiterati, told I’m inappropriate.

Asked if I was born with bollocks, labeled frigid, called a slut.

I’m conscious of all my decisions, chosen to remember them

At times when I am finding out if they were right or they were wrong.

I don’t claim omniscience. I hold intelligence in awe

I’d rather know I’m ignorant and perfectly flawed

For the journey’s earning’s learning in its absolute form

And it gives your seasons reasons for your earthly sojourn.

They say “Don’t get her started” and “Not again, here we go”

When engaging in discussion and opinion of their point is low.

This is my elixir, though. This heady mix of raw debate.

With sowing of seeds and the joy to watch them germinate.

Frustrated by the limitations I cannot see

That seem to bind most others to a life semi-free

With their worries of decorum or etiquette or saving face.

I’d like to rip their blinkers off, put Technicolor in their place.

You’ll never know what you could be if you never try

And then you’ll blink and you’ll be at the end of your life.

I’ve seen too many dreamers go to holes in the ground

And damsels in distress choosing to wait to be found

By princes preoccupied with kissing the seeming dead.

I can’t understand why they don’t rescue themselves instead.

I love Lara, Xena, Tank Girl and Janeway

For standing up and counting, for doing things their own way.

Ignoring real heroines, a culture habitual.

The women on that list were completely fictional.

I’m not sold on the Lady myth. Keep your expectations.

Sell them to someone who’ll accept that degradation.

Do you want your daughters to grow up with choice?

Then encourage them to speak in an authorative voice.

Teach everyone to accept that “no means no”

But it also means “stop asking” and “leave me alone!”

If someone cannot answer it’s still not consent

And you don’t get to decide what unconscious people meant.

Those lines that you claim are blurred beyond compare

Are clear as Autumn air, no matter what clothes you wear.

Attraction’s not a circumstance of pink and blue

So stop trying to squeeze a right foot in a left hand shoe.

I stole that line from Carroll, from the Man Upon A Gate

But unlike him I know that there is too much to relate.

For the journey’s earning’s learning in its absolute form

And it gives your seasons reasons for your Earthly sojourn.

There is too much to discover for to ever be bored

And you’ll find its only you who is even keeping score.

So accept your physicality and mistakes of the past

For your time here is limited and goes pretty fast.

Do you honestly want your last thought to be

“I didn’t spend enough time just being me”?