Monday morning. Catastrophe beckoned
As Dad's urgent bellow rang out.
"Are you ready? We're going." "I'm coming."
Despite the bed's warmth I jumped out.
 
Soap and water could wait 'til the evening.
One leg in my trousers, I hopped
Round the room and, as ill luck would have it,
Discovered a pin I'd once dropped.
 
"Aaargh!" Bleeding, I stood on my French book
And left an unscheduled red smear.
There'd be real Gallic sparks from Madame who
So rarely exuded 'plaisir'.
 
But I shoved the book deep in my school bag,
Discovering my shirt, socks and tie
Knotted tightly together to safeguard
Six toffees and half a mince pie.
 
As Dad tooted a furious reminder
I stuffed the pie into my mouth,
Grabbed my bag, missed the top of the staircase
And found myself tumbling due south.
 
The big ambulance driver was gentle.
He located most of my teeth.
Said I'd soon get the hang of the crutches
Despite the cracked rib underneath.
 
Dad's advice was so typically adult.
"Be organised. Don't ride your luck.
Be hygienic!” I'll try it but first I've
Got six hairy toffees to suck.

This poem first appeared in a Diss Anthology (August 2000).
Used here with permission.