Back in the housing estate in Birmingham

She’d muss up my hair and say with conviction

“We’ll win the lottery with the correct numeration,

and far away from this dismal English dump we will go,

For a stylish trans-Atlantic flight from Heathrow,

with all the cash we can carry, my own true son

we’ll wend our way to the bright distant sun

and sandy beaches of the fabled Florida shore

Just you wait and we’ll have this and much more.”

Da took a dimmer view of our prospects,

His anger flowing from his head to his biceps,

“Listen lad, and listen real good to your betters

your mum’s just an aging slag who’s gone nutters,

she ignores me wants and thinks she’s so la-de-da,

with all her talk of that daft state of Florida,

when the truth is that anyone but a bloody fool

knows that the best we can do is Blackpool.”

Mum would just smile and say behind her hand

“No fears, my lovely son, for I have a plan.”

She scrimped and saved and mastered economy

and after three years of cold teas and frugality,

me mum brought forth her jar of shillings and pences

for by her calculations she could fulfill her intentions.

But finding it fell two-thirds short by her count,

She looked with accusation at Da, that big lout.

Who loudly proclaimed, “better to have a pint today

than sand between your toes on some tomorrow.”

But my dear old mum just smiled and did not fret,

“Don’t worry son, for I have another plan yet.”

As we sit smelling the sand and lotion,

Me mum, she looks out across the ocean.

Well tanned by her time on the Florida coast,

She raises her piña colada for a heart-felt toast,

“To your dear Da who with foresight and consideration,

Left us with insurance of such generous remuneration.”

She paused for a moment; of tears there was not a trace

“Pity the old sod had to fall down the staircase.”

Sitting on the beach with dear old mum;

“Good plan,” I said, sipping my rum.

May 1, 2005