A seasonal and (for once) almost entirely fictional poem

A Charity Shop’s Twelve Day Christmas Holidays Lament

On the first day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: an Alan Partridge Summer Special DVD (left in a bag on the doorstep and nicked by a passing drunk).

On the second day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: two ’sixties turtle necks (with psychedelic stains too disgusting even for the rag bag).

On the third day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: three French ceramic hen-shaped egg-storers (only one with a lid, and that cracked).

On the fourth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: four squeeze-to-sing-along Santa cuddly toys (that go off randomly and repeatedly, and die in painful electronic wheezes as battery life fades).

On the fifth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: five gold-finish curtain rings (and eighteen assorted rusty hooks).

On the sixth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: six glass geese with missing feet (all laid out; one’s lost its beak and two their tails; no golden eggs).

On the seventh day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: seven publicity photos from a provincial ’seventies Swan Lake (signed by a teenaged prima who pirouetted on to securer life behind a counter at Primark).

On the eighth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: eight spurious spam emails from someone else’s fund-raising masquerading as us, squeezing every drop of sentiment from good cheer (creaming off our efforts and causing consternation).

On the ninth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: the company of her inebriated friends’ hen party (nine ‘ladies’ congaing off their trolleys, cha-cha-cha-ing in the changing room).

On the tenth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: her husband-to-be’s still-partying-at-ten-am stag doers staggering hide and sick (sic) behind my bric-a-brac (and moon-walking naked in the window).

On the eleventh day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: eleven vinyl LPs of pan pipes and some Pink Floyd (all cover versions without covers and all covered in scratches).

On the twelfth day of the Christmas holidays a donor gave to me: a pared-down spare drum kit snaring druggies from street corners around town (because of its unexpected hidden stash of Saatchi icing sugar);
twelve gang members, swaggering
eleven crack cops, guns cocked
ten social workers, crucified
nine photographers, flashing
eight reporters, up-staging
seven neighbours, swearing
six politicians, taking advantage
five police cars, sirens wailing
four film crews, satelliting
three sniffer dogs, barking
two volunteers, terrified
and one manager, wondering.

 

Advertisements
This entry was posted in poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

4 Responses to A seasonal and (for once) almost entirely fictional poem

  1. Ron says:

    I imagine I would have a hard time being diplomatic with people who think the phrase “Charity shop” actually means “landfill”. You’re a better person than I Ms. Fox.

    • Myfanwy Fox says:

      Cheers, Ron. Sometimes we retreat to the sorting room for a silent scream. I sometimes feel like grabbing a rubbish-donor before they exit and saying, ‘Look! Just LOOK around this – really rather clean and lovely – shop; can we sell this broken [toy; china; dvd; filthy pillow etc]?’ But hey ho, MOST people are lovely and donate things that are actually saleable.

  2. I love this; I used to work in an Oxfam shop. 😊

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s