The Sunday Times:

Heavy with wish for a little more sleep-
Her eyes were almost ready to peep;
Into stripes and collars and pocket-books,
But glaring into what is to be cooked.
Breakfast, tiffin, lunch, dinner,
Couldn’t the refrigerator be little cleaner?
The iron-man, the water-bearer,
God save the not god-fearer.
The loud cook, the over-age maid,
All made up for her A-grade.
Monsoon now meant damp walls,
Onto which silently a spider crawls.
Out of pages, the clear light of day,
Leaves food rotten, open on a tray.
She conjured up a trick,
Of being indifferent for a week.
The walls flourished with organized cobweb,
The shelves and wardrobes looked an ‘after-raid’.
Divinely domesticated,
Life was translated-
From pastels to dust,
Rhymes to rust.