The table’s small,

the platter huge, primitive,

with tiny bowls of succulence

adorning

three vast lamb chops.

Wine glasses tall enough

to toast a banker’s bonus.

The restaurant,

a great ship’s prow

on five floors

sails to port

at Piccadilly,

complete with terrace,

or maybe Upper Deck.

My ex – nephew – in - law

(you know how it is),

swings his runner’s arm

to make a point.

The gesture fells

his glass of red wine

splintered on the floor.

The next table,

with fickle space between,

is seating two fashionistas.

They head for drama,

(after all, the restaurant’s Italian)

and create a Covent Garden of an opera.

‘did it splatter my black coat?’

(surely an aria worthy of Verdi). 

The waiter disagrees.

He does a Sherlock on the coat:

no drops detected.

He  brings the palace mop

and Downton floor cloths

and sops up the bleeding drops.

Another filled glass transpires

while the fashionistas yodel on

‘it is from the Posh collection

so small, so rare,

to end up blemished here!’

Their universe is crumbling,

it is clear.

We attend to food

and ignore the descant.

The waiter comes again

with a yellow non-slip notice

taller than the tables and

too wide, so it’s jammed between.

The fashionistas leave.

My husband arrives

ripe from organ practice:

more red wine.

The bottle’s getting smaller,

the bill taller.

The bees on the burgundy

wallpaper are bustling,

like naughty maiden aunts

heading for a club.

I swear they were smaller

two hours ago.

We swat the bill

and walk home

through nimble

soho streets

dodging funsters

tumbling for the tube.

Unsteady times.

Liz Callingham