Elspeth was hardly one for rules.
She returned to fireworks once they had been lit
smiling blithely as they went off in her golden face,
brushed off sell-by dates like the hollow portents
of toilet door graffiti,
rushed through customs hiding huge gourds of hair gel,
butterfly knives disguised as hair slides,
muttering chainsaws tucked up her skirts.
She treated an advent calendar like a chocolate box,
time travelling round December, gobbling
cocoa bells, ribbons, ripping down doors.
But when Adam, oh bland Adam,
sat facing her in the café,
prised open his fresh toastie with a knife
and squirted in brown sauce,
she turned over tables like Jesus.
Some things are sacred.
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