Sheila Charles MY ADDRESS BOOK
I’ve had my address book for forty odd years
So it looks rather shabby and worn.
One or two of the well thumbed pages
Are by now faded or torn.
It so happened, while tidying a bedroom drawer,
I found a new one lying there,
Still in its wrapping paper,
Underneath my underwear.
I started on the laborious task of copying from one to another.
I muttered a few words under my breath about my peripatetic brother.
Eight addresses for him and his wife almost filling the letter L.
I’ll write his lastest address in pencil or else I’ll ruin my new book as well.
The new book not only has names and addresses.
It has phone and mobile numbers too.
Plus, email, birthday and anniversary.
What was I expected to do?
Send them all a birthday and anniversary card
Wherever it fell due?
(I wrote down the names of their children on the anniversary line.
There is only room for three of four names so that worked out just fine.
Luckily most folk just have a couple though one of my aunties had mine!)
As my aunties and uncles are all deceased, I’d no need to write THEM in.
In fact there was hardly anyone left among my kith and kin!
So, it didn’t take as long as I thought.
Most pages had nothing on.
People email, Twitter or Facebook now.
Lette – writing days are long gone!
I can count who writes to me on ONE hand,
Well, ONE finger, ‘cos it’s actually ONE!
Right, I’ve copied everything neatly
Sheila. Now it’s time to get rid
Of the old one. Go on. Just DO IT>
But no, I kept it. Yes, I did.
I can’t seem to throw anything out.
I re-arranged what I’ve already got.
Could this trait be hereditary?
Well, I’ve to blame someone, have I not?
illustration by ume-nori
