Quiet time is my weekly ponder
as to why Dimbleby didn’t get denchers
instead of that hidden away tattoo
whilst a know it all who’s rehearsed all week
to stutter out a sentence live on air
nervously shakes his forgotten cue card.
The washing up’s done by then
and perhaps weekly laundry’s been hung
before a final trip to the kettle for tea
and a cheeky slice of late evening toast,
after all I’ll have been for a run
or exhausted myself thinking about going.
By the time good old Dave is rattling through
phone numbers, locations and Twitter handles
the bed’s usually covered with crumbs,
I’ll have had my goodnight phone call
and definitely will have brushed my teeth
with full intent of getting some quiet.
You can often almost hear Friday
ticking its way to you as Andrew Neil
prattles on about this and that
whilst everyone tunes out at the distraction
of his one week beige, next week red mane
of surely sewn in, license fee bought hair.