Poet Pimpernel: Trafvulgar Square

I lost my gloves in Trafvulgar square.

Bloody tourists milling around everywhere.

It’s not as if I put them down for long,

but I turned my back and they were gone.

I trundled back to the National Gallery

and spoke to their security.

An African gent who looked bemused

as I explained, remonstrated, ranted and enthused.

'Have you seen them? I was just in here,

I may have dropped them over there.'

He looked slightly peeved but still he smiled

and spoke to me as one would to a child.

He said: 'I haven’t seen them. Are you sure?

Please, look in your bag just once more.'

'Look. I know I’ve lost them.' Said I to he.

Still, I looked in my bag out of courtesy.

Can you believe it? I felt mortified.

There they were in my bag, and so - I lied:

'No. They’re not there, but thanks for helping anyway.'

I turned fast on my heels and scurried away.

I really hate Trafvulgar Square!

Poet Pimpernel