Ode to Nigella

Ode to Nigella.

It is cold in this room
There’s a bad a smell of mould
It’s the best I can get
Nothing for me, I’m told.
I’m a carer, for those
Who are struggling so,
Who can’t care for themselves,
My salary’s low.
Can’t afford my own place
So I’m renting this room
Keeping warm in my bed
Nigella’s on soon.

She has left her big house
In London somewhere
She will drive her posh car
To get some fresh air
In the country, her place
With a barn – she must rest
She needs a martini
Some ‘me time’. She’s stressed.
She’ll make twinkly biscuits
For when people drop in
She’ll make twinkly cocktails
With top quality gin
She will smirk at the camera
She’ll whisk and she’ll cut
She’ll do double entendres
It’ll never be smut.
She will devil her eggs
Pomegranate it up
She will look on her shelves
For a suitable cup
Or a bowl or a spice
Or a whisk or a sauce
She’ll mix lots of things up
(Copper mixer, of course)
Then her ‘friends’ will arrive
Under twinkling lights
And flickering candles
The table delights.

It is cold in this room
There’s a strong smell of mould
I’m a carer, you see,
For the sick and the old.

Jenny Knight

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