"I wish you were my Dad"
I thought as he presented
a souffle full of cream,
on our black and white televison set
It was the cravat - a paisley thing around
just like Mr Harvey, the art teacher.
How proud I would be of a father like that;
sophisticated, sauve, debonair.
Laughing in the face of a stiff, cold tie.
He'd drink red wine, and have a cultured
with the cravat sitting snugly at his throat.
He'd have one for every day of the week.
"This is my Dad",
I'd say, my voice thick with pride.
People would look up to him in awe.
Some of this adulation shining onto me,
for being so clever, as to be a daughter
of this amazing, cravat-wearing man.
He'd notice that I was actually there,
he'd have the wit to see the person I
really was underneath.
Then I'd finally have friends,
who would come round and
gaze at him:
"What a wonderful cravat",
"Only the superb and very clever
could wear such a thing as that."
And he'd cook the same souffle in
our shiny kitchen,
straight out of the adverts.
Oh - and we'd have a colour telly too,
- and maybe, carpet.