Tony Quarrington

To climb those hundred, hollow creaking stairs

And shuffle onto tiny wooden benches,

And listen to those around me,

With their home counties accents

And rude sense of entitlement,

Grumbled that their squashed up seats,

Even with their paid for padded cushions,

Aweayre too narrow, too cramped, too hard,

Too damned uncomfortable for their

Four hundred years evolved backsides.

To queue for what seems hours at the bar,

Jostled, muttered at, and splashed with beer

By every sweaty, tie-dyed passed by

Who left it late to heed the bathroom call;

And drenched again as hey return,

still attending to their open flies,

(No washing of hands here),

To catch the band’s favourite song of theirs

And muscle into my dancing space

Beneath the players on the stage.

To search, perchance to find

That cherished corner in the church

Of coffee, cake and ten thousand books.

Wherein I can plant myself for hours

And pen these verses or plan new work;

Only to find that a young family of four,

Day trippers from their wide eyed curiosity,

Have been patiently lurking all the while

At the end of the frantic, noisy counter.

Ready to claim the table that belongs to me.

To cram in the case that last best pair of shorts,

Only to find the balance tipped on the scales

Cursing the traffic on the motorway approach,

And then to be told of a delay of three hours;

To lose wifi, and thus your boarding pass,

At that most crucial moment beside the gate,

To spend eleven hours imprisoned in a box,

Wedged in by by the largest passenger on board,

And learn your entertainment system’s out of order

And your sole preferred meal option has run out.

All these, and a thousand other irritations

That filed our lives with strain and care,

I crave that they might yet soon return,

For every one I could now gladly bear.

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