Bread Bin

I remember being small and looking up to my Mum with her wisdom and all,

And yet I could not fathom just why, O why she needed to stand in the street and talk to her friends about such boring things as work and sofas and crockery. I knew not the things of which they spoke, only I knew that they were the most boring things that they could have ever chosen to speak of; no robots or aliens or talking mice.

But I was a polite child, so I would stand blinking loudly or hopping thunderously from toe to toe, perhaps a daring tug on the sleeve (and that was only in desperate times). I promised myself that I would never talk of such dull things.

On New Year’s day, aged 32 years and 3 months,

I found myself in my kitchen with my friend of 17 years,

So charmed, so amazed and pleased

By my new addition; the Bread Bin.

I caught myself, and admitting my adult sin,

Wondered when such things became so exciting?

If I was 6 years old, the bread bin would be interesting too

But in a different way;

There would be a little dragon living therein,

Or an army of tiny aliens,

Dancing giraffes

Or is it a wayward space ship, made of shiny tin?

Only I’m not 6, I’m 32.

And it is a lovely bread bin.