I've become a daytime, weekday friend,
I never get invited out at weekend.
I'm part of a sub-class who's without a bloke,
lives alone on a pension, usually broke.
From Monday to Friday, between ten and five,
I'll share a latte, a lunch or a drive.
I'm game for a laugh, won't do kiss-and-tell
so I come in handy and scrub up quite well.
We meet in tea rooms, kiss cheeks 'cross the table
I listen & chat, make 'em laugh if I'm able.
And when the time comes to ask for the bill
we stiffly unbend and head for the till.
I insist that we share the cost fifty-fifty
I'll pay my own way - I've always been thrifty.
Besides, on my way there from the bus stop
I'll have picked up a bargain at the charity shop
so then I don't mind going home on my own
and there's my cats and the laptop so I'm not really alone.
But, sometimes on Sundays, when Facebook's gone dead,
cos everyone's out with their loved ones instead,
and the phone doesn't ring, the book's a lost cause
and I'm stuffing chocs in my mouth without pause,
I stop and wonder where it all went wrong.
I'm the opera singer who hasn't a song,
I'm the magician whose trick went up in smoke,
the comic performer who can't see the joke.