Pardon My French

I’ve been updating my poem folder this morning after last month’s writing orgy and I came across one that I didn’t publish for napowrimo:
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The Heralding Smell

Flies alight on dog

shite.  Their mess is everywhere:

spring is in the air.
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Apologies for swearing; it’s not something I normally do now that I have learned to ignore my husband’s one or two hundred imperfections; but it seriously annoys me when I have to clean my dog and my shoes after walking him.  I pick up my own poo; why can’t other people do the same? 

This is a recurring theme in my life.  Just yesterday, a little girl spotted the plastic bone on Toby’s lead that holds the poo bags and she told me I was ‘a good lady.’  I think I am; in this instance, anyway.  I don’t know how dog owners can be so lazy; it’s disgusting.  I lost count of the times that Spud would toddle beside me when I took Tory Boy to school, then topple over into a steaming pile of irresponsibility.  Fortunately, there was a large bin on the way so I was able to strip off his keks and chuck them in.  Not so bad in summer, but his little legs turned blue in winter.  In case you think I’m cruel, I always had his pram and blanket with me but he would not get in and covered up.  That child loved to walk everywhere.  At less than two years old he spent fourteen hours in Blackpool on a family day trip and we used his pram to carry the junk people always buy/win in seaside resorts because he refused to be wheeled.  Except for one larcenous half-hour at the fun fair: we walked through the shop, looking at tat, and it was only when we got back to the car that we discovered he had snaffled three sticks of rock from one of the low shelves.  He did a similar thing in Mothercare when he was eighteen months old, but that time it was a pack of plastic ducks for his bath.  I’m raising a villain.

It is at this point that you must leave a comment telling me what a great mother I am, in spite of my reprobate offspring; I read this quote from Trackle the other day: Everyone needs recognition for his accomplishments, but few people make the need known quite as clearly as the little boy who said to his father: “Let’s play darts. I’ll throw and you say ‘Wonderful!’