Second Home

Second Home by Rob Barratt An escape from the rat race. Life lived at a slower pace An idyllic setting they won’t be letting The cottage slumbers , Like the electricity meter numbers It’s early March. The house is dark They’re in Marylebone Or in Rome It’s a second home It’s a mothballed shell, residential hell It’s a funeral bell, a death knell For the low-paid locals whose response was vocal (In the White Rose, before it closed) But unrecordable It wasn’t affordable It’s an empty place, a waste of space It hasn’t got a ‘phone. It’s a second home People recall that within the walls Of this second pad, lived a Mum and Dad With their family, on the settee They watched Morcambe and Wise, and ate pork pies In the blue TV light on a Saturday night Life was pleasant in Woodland Crescent But the parents are gone and the kids have grown. Mustn’t moan. It’s a second home In the shop, the assistant mops a spillage Cycles to a less fashionable village And she saved for….how long was it? To get a deposit On a studio flat, where you can’t swing a cat And she silently groans and takes out loans Despite her persistence, she’s just living an existence She says, “Why me?” and wishes she Could spend the days where she was raised She wishes she could own That second home If they want a holiday by the sea Why don’t they try a B&B? Life is tough. Isn’t one place enough? And don’t try to build low cost housing ‘Cos you’ll be arousing The anger of every second home owner Who’ll fly in from Barcelona, or Gerona or bloody Pamplona To claim they represent the residents A majority of decadents. Don’t want to set a precedent They want a postcard picture, A chocolate box fixture In water-colour paint. Want to keep it quaint Maintain its reputation Don’t worry about inflation Or minimum wage degradation Sod the working population Mustn’t lower the tone ……….. It’s a second home