The wife and I have packed our bags,

  going our separate ways.

We'll hug and kiss each other tomorrow morning,

try not to show the strain.


Thirty years of married bliss,

now it has come to this.

I know I can be difficult,

It's just my Irish ways.


I always blame the Famine, or the bad old,

Imperial British days.

But it's my own fault, claustrophobia,

I can't take the Plane.


  I'm catching the Ferry,

and tomorrow evening ,I'll meet her,

when she gets off the Plane,

We  booked two  weeks in Menorca,

our holiday in the sun, no rain.


By Holly Barrett