I ate his Pine Porridge for breakfast. Really, which wife would do more?
Then he barred me from the kitchen, declared my plain cooking a bore.
I longed for a real Christmas dinner but Turkey Crème Brûlée‘s his plan,
Adrift on a seething cranberry lake, with croutons of marzipan.
His pigs aren’t wrapped in blankets, they’re given walnut wings,
A squirt of helium and they float, porky-angel things.
His Roast Potato Sorbet’s grim – why must his veg mutate?
And cleverly plaited gravy? Better sploshed over the plate.
I loathe his test-tube puddings, spitting sparks as I pull off the lids.
His Custard Bombs do as they promise and traumatise the kids.
My lovely sherry keeps me sane; I hide it under the sink.
He’d mull it, given half a chance, with hummus and squid ink.
I did spare a glass for Santa. Poor chap, I sympathised:
Mince pie crisps on the hearth and Rudolph’s carrot, spiralised.
So, while Gaston searched for his blowtorch, I caught him unawares,
One quick shove and he’s spending the day in the cupboard under the stairs.
I’ve turned up the Christmas carols so the guests can’t hear his shouts,
He’s only got himself to blame – no-one ‘toffee-apples’ my sprouts.
I’m not a monster. I’ll let him out at roughly half past three,
By then my real Christmas dinner will be a fait accompli.

Jane Trenholm tweets @jburt1960