Did you have aunty to whom you weren’t related?
A friend, your parents had bestowed as a relative.
Her husband would be known as your uncle too.
Each visit they’d bring toffees for you to chew.

Fridays they’d play cards with my Mum and Dad.
Cigarette smoke forming clouds in the parlour.
We shared a holiday or two with them as well.
Off we’d go in a Ford Zephyr with an oily smell.

The Zephyr would take us to Talacre and Rhyl.
To stay in a Bed and Breakfast close to the front.
‘No food in the rooms and in by 10 O’clock.’
Each day in the arcades, chewing on rock.

A queue for the bathroom, towel over the arm.
Before a breakfast of beans, bacon and eggs.
Only one round of toast each was allowed.
When we passed the landlady, we bowed.

At Christmas my conferred aunt would bring gifts.
Invariably a tea-towel for my Mum and Dad.
A Cadbury’s selection box for each of us kids.
But Mum put them in tin boxes with lids.

In my teens it dawned she wasn’t my aunt.
I became brave and started to call her Francis.
Regardless, the sweets and gifts still came.
So, friend or aunty – I say, what’s in a name?