Do The Bunk

Three halves of shandy
at the Leigh-on-Sea Regatta
after a month of no alcohol
felt a little bit fun:
Fizzy-headed,
muzzy-minded,
afternoon drinking
in the warm September sun.
Quick look at the watch
it’s an hour til X-Factor,
we’ll never make it
if we walk back home,
Got to get the train
so I down the last mouthful;
London Pride and lemonade
reduced to a foam.
Crunch along the cockle shells
holding my breath
past the sheds;
Past the teenage lovers in a seaside embrace,
Hear the click on the railway line
of a train approaching fast,
a leisurely stroll
becomes a sweaty race.
We run to the ticket hall
and the barriers are open:
a golden opportunity
for a spot of train bunking.
Twenty minutes til Simon Cowell
and Cheryl Cole,
no time for ticket-buying
no time for flunking…
We’re giggling in the carriage
as we fly towards Westcliff-on-Sea
triumphant in our twenties
that we Bunked The Train.
This makes up for the times
I never nicked sweets with my friends
Or had Topshop skirts stuffed under shirts,
I never was to blame.
I paid for every pick and mix,
my conscience always kicked in,
A fear of what my Mum would say
I never stole a thing.

We get off at the next stop,
and I feel in my pocket as we sail through the barriers,
And I realise with crushing defeat:
I’m not rebellious at all,
I had a valid ticket in my pocket all along.
Not so rock and roll.