Instead Of An Egg

You may recall that moment.
When suddenly someone declares.
That this Easter there will something different.
Instead of an egg.
Perhaps aged 12 a voice inside you cried.
But you smiled and gratefully received.
Socks, a book or, God forbid, a charity chick.
But the voice inside you cried.
I wanted a really big egg in a mug.
Oh that mug.
A mug beyond all others.
I wanted to be surrounded by chocolate.
Like I was aged 11.
I didn’t want that.
Instead of an egg!
In my family those words still prevail.
And I’m now 48.
But no longer the voice inside me cries.
Those words now have new meaning.
A trip, a meal a new outfit.
A plant from the very expensive garden centre.
And so I said to Mother just last week.
We’re buying new sofas.
The dog has ruined the others.
Three seaters, removable covers in dark terracotta.
Dad would like to buy you one.
Shouts Mother down the phone.
But why I cry.
Your father says it’s an investment to sit on.
Really, you are impossibe.
I will not let you buy one.
Your father says it’s instead of an egg.
I’m silent, beaten into submission.
I have no further argument or power to resist.
I very gratefully accept the cheque.
In June.
Instead of an egg.