The perfects fill their car again.

Rucksacks and waterproofs,

Pocket maps and walking boots.

Photos Facebooked like safari trophies.

 

After a Sunday abseiling down The Matterhorn,

they return to rustle up

a Mongolian Banquet or two.

"It's easy really as long as you've got the right ingredients."

 

Bedtime stories quell the quins

like their publisher said they would.

Then it's ambassador's drinks, forty winks,

a run, a shower and work.

 

I lie unwashed like laundry cluttering,

light fights dust and curtains

to glint off foil take away trays

and lighten the overdue bills.

 

Time, like leftovers, should not be wasted,

but days slip by like oiled ghosts

away as I try to grab them

and ask what they should be.