But let us drop the turgid and clearly slightly eristic (another one for Ann, Bionic and H, there. You’re welcome) subject of my reproductive plans for the moment.
Sometimes, when I’m trapped in an interminable meeting and it’s not my turn to take the minutes, I indulge myself by writing verse (or drawing cats. And rectangles. Hello, Dr Freud, knock yourself out). Today I wrote a sonnet. About H.
Now, now, those of you who felt the urge to run away and puke (I know you’re out there), it’s not that sort of sonnet. Remember, I am made of knives and snark.
Enjoy. Or not. Or get all confused. All responses acceptable.
But what is more important? Come now, child,
A kind, a loving man, makes tea, gives flowers,
And braves the sanitary products aisle
Unasked, remembers chocolate has a power
To sooth, as does the washing-up being done –
He even listens to you, child! So what,
Exactly, mithers you? You aren’t so young
Or pretty any more; he thinks you’re hot
Regardless. He is still a handsome man.
Your world agrees you have ensnared a jewel
By some surprising, obscure, clever plan.
You’re loved and envied. Enjoy it, little fool.
Ignore the sour thoughts. Your mouth turns grim
Whenever you notice no one envies him.