NumbersHow old are you Grandad, she asked.I said I was twenty-two.She didn't believe me.She was six.With that pink hat she lostIn the town that's dead now,That graveyard of the recession.And on my centenaryI received correspondenceFrom her majestyWho said I could start my birthdays again.Don't be silly, she said.Maybe she did believe me.I dreaded the day that she would know.Know that I had lied.She wouldn't be six for very longAnd that hat would get left behind.How old are you Grandad, she asked.I said I was seventy-eight.Shouldn't you be thirty-four, she said.No, but my hip is nearly five.