When I try Blind Man’s Buff I charge across floor

like I am with bayonet in battle, make my dancing

partner Gladys fall over and graze her knee

and everyone thinks I am intoxicated tosspot.

When I see Gladys at dance in golden gown with frills

like curtains, with bustle, tight bodice, moving bosoms

and strong bread-kneading shoulders exposed,

chestnut hair all curled up like glazed pastry rings

I know this comely girl will make healthy babies for me.

She does not mind I look like jackass when dance.

She does not mind I trip over words like furniture.

She does not mind I look at her feet when I speak.

She does not mind when I ask her to be my bride.

I married Gladys, of Islington, County of Middlesex,

in ceremony in Woolwich, County of Kent,

at 11 A.M. in the morning on the 19th day of July, 1871.

(I will be her ‘Louis Lambkins’ until the day I die.)

1872 –

A MAN is not a man until he has produced sons.

A woman is not a woman until she makes babies.

1872 – a girl, Louisa: I did not show disappointment.

1873 – a boy, Frederick: he will follow in my footsteps.

1874 – a girl, Lydia: I pray second son soon comes.

1876 – a girl, Emily: she did not stay with us for long.

1878 – a boy, Caleb: neither did he.

1879 – a girl, Caroline-Ada: my wife is overjoyed.

1883 – a girl, Florence: why am I being punished?

(Gladys pleads we give up, but I will not be defeated.)

1890 – a boy, Harry: after seventeen years failing!

1891 – a boy, Arthur: Okay, Gladys, we stop now.

How English I have become with my English love,

and blood, whose native tongue is not of my own.

This is my country now. I have built my home.

My wife raises our stock to be obedient and hygienic,

she helps out in the bakery when housework

is completed to highest possible standards.

I am lately Deputy President of the Association of Bakers

(Kent Region). I have purchased No 76 for expansion

and bought a phonograph for the back parlour.

Gladys plays that ta ra ra boom dee-yay nonsense.

I prefer Ludwig Van Beethoven and, once a year,

hail a carriage to Blackheath Conservatoire, alone.

GLADYS DREAMS of a Royal Doulton flushing toilet.

I dream Harry and Arthur will enter my business.

She retorts they’ll do as they please, likely.

Wife’s got lippy of late. I should slap her,

but she’ll only slap my face harder, likely.

Yet still we dream of sweet dotage together.

The German Colony in Woolwich is growing,

but the land they left behind is not one I remember –

they are more stranger than compatriot, alas.

So many weddings we have had: Louisa to Sidney,

Overlooker of Explosives at the Arsenal.

Frederick to Mary from Scotland (He works at my side.)

Lydia to Francis Bickerstaff, Spirit Merchant up

at Charlton Village. Caroline to William Brinkworth,

Brass Machinist at the Arsenal. (Not the brightest catch