Inchock’s Memories Series
Ah, Good evening!
I’d love to tell of my one bath a week, even if it’s not too poetic,
It’s just for fun; nothing meant didactic…
Dad would decide when the bath was needed, I was like a lunatic,
Got the pans and kettles on the fire, all rushing and frantic!
Worra Life It Wor!
It wasn’t easy getting it from the backyard wall,
I struggled with only being 3ft something tall,
Then clean it with a leather ball…
Dragging it in through the back hall…
Filling it with hot water, there wasn’t much at all…
Carbolic soap, Dad’d get in, having a soak,
He could not be rushed; he was that sort of bloke,
I refilled the pots and kettles, back on the boil,
Gawd, it was an arduous task, all sweat and toil!
I used to hope that the Dad would rush his frolic,
But no chance, once he smelt the carbolic!
He’d lay back and sing, drink something alcoholic,
I had to be patient and wait, be stoic!
Just Thinking Back… Hehe!
He’d call for more hot water; I dare not offer rhetoric…
I’d top up the water, boy, was I young and omnific!
He’d sing another song and say something prophetic,
I’m late with hot water top-up; he calls me a schmendrick!
He’d clip me round the ear hole; at that, he was slick!
Well over an hour, he’d soak, giving me the odd backhanded flick,
“Get me clothes!” At last… I don’t want to be a critic…
The water was dirty and cold, but my being a workaholic,
Got his togs while he cut his cowlick…
At long last, it was time for a cold bath for me!
He’ll get out eventually and go into the kitchen to shave,
Reminding me not to make a mess and behave…
He’d splashed dirty water all over, another job he gave…
“Clean the bath properly, the carpet, and the fireplace you!”
So after my five minutes, I was so cold and blue!
Emptying the bath, then to get it outside too!
Embarrassingly, my skinny body still smelt mephitic!
But Dad had an urgent job to do,
“So no hot water added for you!”
He was off for a pint at the Barley Moo!
The bath back on the wall outside,
Both rooms were all cleaned and dried,
His meal next, no proper cooking, only summat fried…
Bacon and eggs, some beans, and his Mothers Pride…
That was his favourite bread,
It was a penny cheaper, that being said…
♫ Happiness, happiness ♫
When will he return, six o’clock or ten?
The long wait to be suffered then…
His return was usually undramatic,
Drunk, he’d often fall over – he was pretty acrobatic!
Sozzled suited me cause he couldn’t taste the food,
And was generally in a decent mood,
If he’d done well at Snooker, a good attitude!
If he’d guzzled Guinness or a more potent brew!
Me keeping out of the way is what I’d do!
Still, thanks for reading, kind of you!
A marvelous account of not-so-pleasant tasks. Was there ever a day when the old sot was drunk? Nothing quite matches the fearsome demands of a tyrant who just happens to live in the same dwelling. Slavish stuff and not even able to find the hot water inside. At the very very least we had hot water enough for six people in those days, and my father only drank about 3 beers per year, and then only after activities such as mowing the lawn without benefit of electric power. Unfortunately, I did not follow the alcohol lesson that my father gave, what an idiot I were to be sure. HRH’s dad (pronounced “dade”) was a hard-driven drinker who would stay late at the alcohol purveyors, and would the come home to beat up his three kids. He got better in life though, there was *that* saving grace.
I fang you too, mate!
Morning Billum.
Dad? Strongly tipsy a few times bless him. Not a bad chap really, he’d gone though losing his first wife, and ended up with the East Midlands suprem con artist for hos second wife. When it ended just ne and him, I knew where I stood, his accepting her back after her runaways from the police, shows his good side – but it amazed me.
We’ve both been weak and fallen for the bottle. And both escaped its clutches, more and more similarities, mate. All three of us in this case. The prescious HRH Lisa, your worthy-of-a-Nobel-Prize self, and slowly ging to pot me. Hahaha!
I fink we dun well! ♥♥♥