(A poem I wrote for the kids and their grandad)

 

If Grandad should come round to our house sometime

For lunch or for dinner or tea

He’ll tell us he’s not a big eater these days

“Don’t serve up too much for me”.

 

He likes a red wine before his repas

It serves as aperitif

And anyway these days he can’t chew so well

Not with his NHS teeth.

 

In time we’ll sit down for our meal to begin

He likes to start off with a soup

And in between talking he takes a small slurp

He’s always the last in the group.

 

He’ll turn his bowl outwards like posh people do

A gentleman, let it be said

He’ll suck on his croutons as best as he can

Then wipes out the bowl with his bread.

 

So on to the main course – quite simple his tastes

Most often two veg and some meat

“Don’t give me too much” he usually says

 I need to leave room for my sweet.

 

In time, though, he’ll get through his meat and two veg

So slow that it looks like a chore

Then sits back replete and pats on his tum

“I don’t suppose there’s any more?”

 

I might have misled you with “meat and two veg”

He manages anything hot

Lasagne or chilli or fish, chips and peas

He’ll hoover the perishing lot.

 

Whatever’s there he’ll wade his way through

He’d manage an old scabby cat;

Provided you keep it a secret from him

He’ll say “I enjoyed eating that”.

 

So on to the puddings – it’s rarely just one

And whether it’s baked, cold or steamed

His first bowl and second and sometimes his third

Will all be swimming in cream.

 

And when he has polished off everything that

A giant’s stomach could take

He asks us over his coffee and wine

“I don’t suppose that there’s some cake?”

 

“Is there nothing your dad will not eat?” I ask

Our Gert, with a tear in my eye:

But No 1 Daughter has answered this –

            He wouldn’t touch Sarah’s fish pie.