The Posh Frock. This is a poem I found in a lovely book called ‘Posh Frocks and Postings’ by Maggie May. I refuse to say if this has ever crossed my lips!!!
How often does it happen
when you pop into a boutique,
you spot a little number,
but your conscience starts to tweak?
You try to walk straight past it
but you fell it’s really you,
besides, it’s what you’re needing
to wear at Fridays do…
The sales girl spots you looking
you know you shouldn’t buy it).
Too late, she’s swooped upon you
saying, ‘would you care to try it?’
A seconds hesitation
then to the fitting room you go
(it’s communal and heaving
and undies overflow)
Someone’s doing battle
with zip that doesn’t meet.
It’s bottoms up - arms flying
(not to mention all that heat.)
You peel off outer garments
then dive in, like the rest.
You hope the outfit’s worth it
and makes you feel well-dressed.
The first glance in the mirror
tells you…this is really it.
(You’ll trim the household budget)
no smoked salmon for a bit.)
When husband sees you in it,
an admiring kiss he plonks,
just smile, then sweetly tell him-
‘Oh this…I’ve had it for yonks!’
