The Day The Handle Literally Came Off In My Hand

I’ve always been fond of her, ever since

We were eight and played together on the heath

Below the castle; I was Charlemagne with my laurel wreath,

And she was Boadicea, smelling of hawthorns and mints,

And whoever won would get to sit on the other

Behind the parapet and sing God Save The Queen

Or La Marseillaise.

Those were the days!

We played this game until we were sixteen, when my mother

Said I couldn’t see her anymore because a magazine

Had printed a picture of her without her top,

Eating Rice Crispies, and the caption read:

“Lola will make you snap, crackle and pop! –

“Join her for breakfast in bed!”

Time loosened the links between us and the years

Blurred my memory of her freckled face

And her lighthouse eyes that sprang with tears

And her racing green doublet of leather and lace,

Until one day, when I was thirty-five,

I met her again by chance in Old Compton Street,

Just before she was due to appear, live,

At Ronnie Scott’s as “Rita Petite”.

Her eyes moistened and a tremor took hold

Of her lips as she held me the way she used to do

Behind that parapet when Boadicea The Bold

Made Charlemagne quiver and yield what was due

To the conquering queen.  I kissed her cheek,

Feeling the old thrill, but the spark of lust

Fizzled fut! – and, before I could speak,

She duly dissolved in a dune of dust.

The doors are closed now, and that other land

Is frozen, like the handle in my hand.