Glue-Sniffing in Neath Castle Gatehouse
It was the late afternoon of a school night
at 26 Pendrill Street, The Melyn, Neath.
The house was packed full as usual,
my Nana was sat in the living room
reading The South Wales Evening Post
and shouting bits of interest into the kitchen
where my Mother was, over the sound
of the TV blasting out the new kids show
‘Thomas The Tank Engine & Friends’
whilst at the exact same time upstairs
could be heard the ‘Our House’ 7” single
by Madness blaring loudly again and again.
“Listen now love, have you heard this?”
my Nana shouted over to the greasy kitchen.
“They’re complaining about glue-sniffers,
messing up the Neath Castle remains
with their glue-bags and cider flagons.
It’s bloody disgusting, don’t you think?
they should be whipped the bloody lot of ‘em!”
My Mother strides into the room all neurotic
and waves a dripping saucepan around
the room at me and my brother and yells
“I bet you two pair of Bastards are involved
in this bloody palaver, you and those stinking
yobo’s you’re always hanging about with!”
“Leave it out Mam, for Fuck Sake!” I yawn.
My Nana jumps up out of her seat and yells
“Don’t you fucking swear at your Mam,
like that then now mun, you little swine!”
My Mother comes rushing back livid
into the room with a different saucepan
dripping 5 pence beans juice everywhere.
“Mind you now boyo, I’d give you what for
if the last time I hadn’t have broke my
big toe kicking your brother and my thumb
punching you in that fucking head of yours!”
Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography
published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids
instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.