It was time to celebrate
I cooked a special meal
Of excellent Greek moussaka
Made with The Boy’s favourite veal
I even made it the day before
The Boy then changed his mind
He went visiting friends in Bondi
And preferred to remain behind
My husband had been a bachelor boy
And a Romeo for twenty joyous years
He sometimes has a selfish streak
And never observes my tears
He changes his mind to suit himself.
After several false pledges,
I’m running out of sandpaper
To smooth out his rough edges.
Saturday night I was on my own
But I knew the meal would last
Into the fridge until tomorrow,
It won’t hurt for me to fast
Sunday came, I went to town.
Some students received an award
They topped the State in piano
Made it on their own accord
Their parents came along, filled with pride
And The Boy arrived on time
To share the presentation
Of instruments, rhythm and rhyme
The Boy looked smart today
He wore a respectable suit
Dapper, he was, despite the heat
And dripping with charm, to boot
The Concert closed with applause
And the proud parents declared
“You should be celebrating, Barb,
Have you something prepared?”
“I do, ” said I, “a fine meal awaits
And some of Teacher’s favourite wine.”
I gazed into The Boy’s eyes,
Thinking he looked divine.
“I must return to Bondi,
There’s something I’ve left behind.
I’ll see you later on at home
I’m sure that you won’t mind.”
The Boy was gone in a flash
Gordon surely was his middle name
I journeyed on back up the Coast,
Inner senses didn’t feel the same.
My phone rang that metallic ding
An SMS came through
‘Struth, it’s from the Boy himself
How would he know what to do?
“Eating dinner with the mates
Already on the go
Do what you want for your evening meal
Be home in an hour or so…..”
I was both seething and fuming
I looked at my work of art.
The best moussaka around, for sure
And he didn’t have the heart
Dare to call me and repent
Texting is the work of a Cad
The Boy couldn’t face my voice,
He would fear that I would be mad.
Rebellion is my forte
What does he love the most?
A bottle of Penfolds Grange lies near
A gift from a friend, he would boast
No less than five hundred dollars
This wine of quality is worth.
I know about its superb style,
Such finesse befits my mirth.
I lick drips from my fingertips
The carafe sucks and splashes down
Majestic black fruits of the Grange,
It’s the most expensive toast in town.
The Boy’s pride and joy of wine
Is this “famous” bottle of Red.
Australia’s finest and flawless
Is about to be ‘drink-ed.’
I close my eyes and sip slowly
Taking care to hold in the juice
I admire the power and the weight,
It’s complexity as I sluice
Around my mouth and through my teeth
Swirls the jewel in Australia’s crown
Tantalising tannins support
My back-palate as I swallow down
Three glasses later, and I hope
The Boy won’t be home for a while
The Greek cuisine has been frozen.
I take my revenge with a smile.
The Boy has blessed this bottle.
Medical Doctors such as he
Declare a scientific interest
In the making of wine, it must be.
Dr Penfold, himself, was a
Great believer in red wine
For the healing powers only
Of the fruits of the vine
Four hours had passed by
There was no sign of His Nibs
It was time for me to retire
And I called the cat, “Mr Tibs!”
One last task for the night was to
Save the dregs in the carafe
With plastic wrap for the seal
I retired with a careless laugh.
As The Boy breakfasted the next day,
I displayed the wreck of my wrong done
My retaliation was accepted
in stone silence – I had won!
“You can drink the rest tonight
I have a work meeting, ” he chides.
“International Women’s Day
Pour moi and dinner besides.”
“I’ve been married for thirty years,
I would never dare do that!”
Friends say, “You’re a braver woman than I
And I take off my hat!”
That evening at dinner for World Women’s Rights
The Boy calls me on the phone
“Meeting finished early, Barbie-doll
So I’m zooming home!!”
“I forgot you were out, Barbie-doll
We didn’t even get fed.”
“There’s nothing at home either.”
Poetic justice isn’t dead.
