My lightbulb moment

The start of 2022 hasn’t been that great for me, so I’m afraid I’ve descended into doggerel once again.

When geriatric and living alone

Minor disasters seem far worse than they are

A lightbulb demise can cause me to moan

A step ladder is sometimes a mountain too far

And with arthritic hands it’s not much of a joy

When struggling to open a jar or container

I use every technique and peculiar ploy Such as can opener, lever or other nobrainer.

This whinge begins with struggle and strife

To open a jar of turmeric powder

Using all tools from scissors to knife When preparing a flavoursome chowder. It was a small tub of devilish design

With plastic ridges but not enough grip Resistant to joints seized up and supine The only solution was fierce brinkmanship.

Weapons were used and force was applied

Until at long last the tub detonated Showering its contents – a bright yellow tide

Into the cutlery drawer - a tsunami created.

At the cost of an hour to clean up the mess

With dishcloths and sponges a virulent yellow

Half contents gone, to my utter distress I just longed for my own handy fellow. They would live in the garden in my old wooden shed

And be ready on call when I’m screaming frustration

At unopenable bottles or seized up screw threads.

They could rush to my aid and mental salvation.

And instead of me climbing precariously up steps

They would change all the light bulbs from bathroom to hall

They would climb up with ease, flexing rock hard biceps

Plus reach things from tall shelves at my beck and call.

They would prune all the trees, and murder the weeds,

Dig over the soil, and do any planting, Mow all the lawn at ten times my speed And save me from groaning and noisily panting.

There’d be a bed in the shed and a paraffin heater

And even a telly and comfy arm chair

I’d give it a clean-out to make it all neater And supply a tool box equipped for repairs.

They’d live there for free and I’d feed them as well

(There’s no hint of slavery in this critical age),

They’d be there voluntarily, free as a gazelle,

So there’s really no need for moral outrage.

I’m being ‘PC’ and very much ‘woke’ Impartial re gender of this life

-saving soul

(Though secretly I envisage a muscly bloke

Who’d deter any burglars on his nightly patrol).

Yes, I know it’s a fantasy, no chance of it happening

But I can dream of the delight and the wonderful pleasure

When a lock doesn’t work or paintwork is blackening

Knowing I can call them whilst reclining at leisure.