This is for my dear sister Carole, whom we lost on Monday. She was a member of a very traditional and, dare I say it, quite mysoginistic suburban tennis and bowling club. She played neither, but was by far the best actor in the amateur dramatics section, which sadly folded years ago. She was a brilliant and inspirational primary school teacher, who loved telling stories, especially in verse. She always dressed beautifully and wore high heels to raise her elfin stature. She may have her ashes scattered on the croquet lawn, but her rebellious spirit will, I feel, also have other ideas...Her favourite poem was Jenny Joseph's "Warning", and she never got old. We will be celebrating her memory this Christmas. She was a hero to me & we all loved her very much. 

 

In red stillettos on the bowling green

I will dance and drink champagne

And for every dumbstruck bowler

I will jive around again

I’ll tease tiresome golfers at the club

For performing under par

And assemble risqué ranks of underthings 

To hang them on the bar

I’ll scrawl poems on the Honours Board

With lipstick, bright cerise

Verses laced with jibes and curses,

Predestined not to please

I’ll stamp on all the biscuits

Laid out for matchday teas

And though no one else would risk it

I’ll descend the roof, on skis

Then slide across the pavilion floor

To general consternation

And float around the tennis courts

Giving umpires palpitations

On President’s Day I’ll extend my reach

With a ceremonial samurai sword

To cut off the Presidential Speech

Just because - I’m bored

I’ll reconstitute the drama section

Which was surely without peer

With its tragicomedy reflections

And stagehands supping beer

Do not not forget me in this place

Be neither morbid nor forlorn

But grab your glass and a folding chair

I’ll be on the croquet lawn.