There were years when the table groaned under the weight
Of the Christmas delights I had cooked.
With a house full of teenagers, everything went
With no delicacy overlooked.
This year I was cooking for me and the dog
With a son coming round as a guest,
So I did little shopping, stayed well in control,
Thinking minimalist would be best.
I hadn’t gone mad, I had spared the excess…
Kept it more like a good Sunday dinner…
(With a good Yorkshire tea, for the end of the day)
But I’m not feeling righteously thinner.
I have eaten the last of the home-made mince pies…
It’s a hard job, but someone must do it.
The turkey, with help from the small dog, has gone
As she happily ate her way through it.
The rich Christmas Log, made of chocolate and cream
Disappeared when I brought out the custard.
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