SUNDAYS AT UNCLE BILL'S

Visiting Uncle Bill was always amusing to my brother and I.
The adult's favourite topic was politics,
and that subject almost always became heated.
Bill and Mum could never see eye-to-eye
and then when the debate inevitably shifted onto the Monarchy,
well, Chris and I would catch each others' eye
and try hard to stifle our giggles.
Mum's face would gradually turn bright scarlet
with rage, while Uncle Bill would reach
for his whisky bottle with shaky hands.
He was firmly anti-establishment, and she
was staunch Royalist. They were never 
going to agree in a month of Sundays - and yet
they still insisted upon goading each other
into all-out war!
We children would eventually slip out unnoticed
and head for the meadow and then the river beyond,
our suppressed laughter finally bursting free
in an avalanche of choking gasps.

Oh how we relished those Sundays!
The distraction from boring homework
somehow brought us out of ourselves.
We saw things more clearly: the duplicity
of the adults, who severely chastised us
for arguing and fighting - when here they were
doing exactly the same thing, and right in front of us!
But we could forget all that
while we were climbing the weeping willows
and racing our boats made from leaves and twigs
on the fast flowing current.

Towards lunch time, though, we would
slink back to the house, all morose
and apologetic for having disappeared
without permission. And we accepted our telling-off's
without protest. We knew from experience
that it was futile to point out the hypocrisy. We were "mere children"
and so were required to obey without question.
Unfair. But that's just the way things were.