The Rather Nice Show




Homewards, driving, the film of existence is over exposed. Gold-glare where the road should have been. It has a thickness, this light, a liquidity. We are swallowed in it, guessing the route. We guess close enough, close enough to get home unscathed.
Half a moon hangs in the sky there, a lace clad performer waiting for applause.
All the blue deepens.
The sun dips to a spotlight, gives the moon centre stage.
A bottle of champagne crouches in the fridge.
A note from Houseguest Ben, out at his Leavers’ Day celebrations, is propped over the oven: I had seen him earlier, suited and booted, off to have fun.
We are to have a glass of champagne, he says, a thank you, he says: if there’s any left could he have another glass, it is rather nice.
A toast we drink, to all of our children and all of their guests.
Whatever else is achieved, is a script to be interpreted, is our encore.







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