I abhor ironing, do not find joy in the cultivation of gentle manners,
seek not a chorus of devoted domesticates; I wish for the society
of roadside sketchers, gypsy lovers and women wearing yellow sashes.
I have not dainty hands. I do not sing or pick flowers. When I am
at the washboard I cannot say what thoughts are in those mounting lathers,
what rubs, grinds, turns the waters brown. It is not saintly. St Peter
would not admit. My wrists are striped with stove burns, the stigmata
of scullery maids, and all you come home to is scorched chicken,
potato mush, torpedo carrots and bullet peas; a meal of contrasts
crafted from a muddled mind. Mother disapproves, says I’m brash.
Brings me marigolds, bleach for the stained toilet, Brasso for the smeared
knobs, beeswax for the sideboard, scourers for the hob. I collect them
in a bag, enjoy sniffing its contents. I forget to wear gloves, I give
money to urchins—more than you’d approve. I buy Malteser chocolates
from the grocer and eat them all in one go. Their spherical allure, perfect
smoothness disappearing as the honeycomb dissolves on my tongue.