The Friday Guest

By Lily Duncan-Birkhead

As ah look at t'meat in supermarket 

Laid in a glaring row o glass an chrome

Sight of it sets mi thinkin of another time, another world,

Wen I wer young, at home. 

Mr Binks called ivvery Friday 

He'd tap on t'door an bustle in

You could tell hi were a butcher

T'smell o fresh meat seemed to cling

There wer a cold look abaht him

- sort o purply-red -

An "now then" alus first words he said

T'table, in t'middle o't kitchen, wer square wi four fat legs

An on it t'meat plate were waitin, an a big white basin for t'eggs

Mr Binks would stand there clutching his apron

Mi Mam would stand clutching her purse

An they'd exchange a few words o wisdom baht weather 

An if it wer gerrin better or worse

Then id dip down into his apron 

Like a conjurer into an 'at

An pull aht a joint o sirloin saying

"It's a nice bit o beef is that".

Mi mam would eye it in steely silence

From ivvery angle his offerin she'd view

An even t'dog held his breath while we waited - 

Till she nodded an said "Aye, it'll do."

He'd relax an start liftin t'eggs aht,

Displayin em one bi one

As he counted em all in ter t'basin

Nobody spoke a word until he'd done

T'eggs were all fresh - just new laid 

That were med quite clear

Ther were still warm wi t'muck on 

An a feather stuck here an there

Then mi Mam would pay him an hav a grumble

He'd stuff t'money in is wallet an sigh

"Farmers are poor an ill done-to" he'd say

She'd give im an owd fashioned look, sniff, an say "Aye"

Mi Mam threatened to "get meat somewhere else"

For 20 years or more

But each week had a Friday in it

An Mr Binks would tap at our door

She'd reckon naught to supermarkets, if mi Mam were ere today

Wi t'meat in paper mâché dishes in a glaring row of glass an chrome

She's still av Mr Binks wi his apron, bringing t'eggs wi muck on

An a nice bit o sirloin on t'bone.



Photo from old & welsh (National Library of Wales on Flickr)  oldandwelsh.tumblr.com
This is John Thomas c.1885