Street Parties

Across the streets, garlands of bunting flutter like prayer flags,

brimming bowls of biscuits, crisps, bright custards and jellies,

cakes and cucumber butties, sausage rolls and cheese
triangle sarnies,

doilies and paper plates, plastic cups and tacky
cardboard hats but

everyone’s smiling and laughing, and yer ma carries trays of

French fancies and fondants, and there’s glasses of
home brewed beer,

garden chairs, rickety stools, and paint splashed
wallpaper tables,

houses with windows thrown open, doors flung wide;
and yer running

in and out, sneaking swigs of stella from your da’s
secret stash, an there’s

jugs of pina colada, Bacardi ‘n’ coke, and there’s that
lad yer fancy in his new chinos,

kissing behind the bins at the top of the street, and the
DJ’s belting out

Lionel Richie and suddenly we’re all dancing on the ceiling and

Madonna’s got us all getting into the groove while your

nan necking back bottles of Babycham like they’re
going out of fashion, and your

older brother’s pretending he can breakdance, while
you swan about

parading your best clobber, Chelsea girl leggings, new
hooped earrings, then a

quick change as the sun sinks over the slates and
you’re spangled in glitter,

ra ra skirts and neon leg warmers, acid dyed jeans and winged eyeliner

shoulder pads and backcombed hair, splashes of
Charlie perfume while

the disco lights toss rainbows and you’re lying on next door’s wall

under the stars while your best mate vomits into the
plant pots to the sound of

Vanilla ice ice baby, and then you’re up again, and
you’re dancing

with the lad from number 19, and he holds your drink
while yer scrawl an

X on the back of his hand with Frosted Sugar Plum
Rimmel lippy, and

yer da’s too drunk to notice and yer nan’s asleep with 1- head in the trifle and

Zzzzz is the sound of her snores drifting over the rooftops, up and out into the night.

By Angela Cheveau