P L A C E S

Ruddington Sunday

I slip to the Co-op, in pyjamas,
Silk, sleepy against my skin, hot with shame.
Early staff grumble rotas, youths stack shelves.
A pensioner wields her baguette, spotlit,
An inexperienced Boadicia.
Here, where they keep my food in their freezer,
Where customers play other roles in life.
Co-op managers built my house themselves,
Stamped wheatsheaves into stone, now stooked up high.
And I, about to slip back under sheets,
To relish home Sunday, Ruddington bells
Meet man who sees only my coat and boots.
"I wish my wife bought Cosmopolitan"
He says, "but she gets Good Housekeeping now".

Catherine Haines, September 1998

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