My late father would do the Daily Mail crossword, without fail, every single day. When I came home in the evening, he would sometimes ask me to help with certain clues that he just couldn’t get.

My mother would sometimes chip in with an answer and, when she did, it really used to irk my father and, although he’d never stomp up to bed, he’d be annoyed that she had been home all day and never helped him.

The fact that he hadn’t asked her, never crossed his mind!!

I’ve been at this for ages,

And still it isn’t done.

Who on earth said crosswords,

Are, ‘Just a bit of fun?’

I’ve got a crossword solver,

And my thesaurus too.

Yet, still I cannot answer,

The one remaining clue!

How can one simple crossword clue,

Be the downfall of us men?

‘A person who writes poetry’

Four letters, starts with ‘N’.

I’ve filled in all the other ones,

I did those in record time.

How can this single, stupid word,

Stump this brain of mine?

The wife puts down her knitting saying,

‘Which one can’t you get?’

To please her I repeat it,

Though she hasn’t helped me yet!

I say, ‘The clue is gradient’,

‘I can see it if you can’t’

‘S, L and then three spaces’

‘What could it be but slant?’

Without a second’s hesitation,

she utters one word: ‘Slope’.

‘S, L and then three spaces.’

Suddenly there’s hope!

‘Then N becomes a P’, She says,

As if I didn’t know it.

‘A person who writes poetry’

‘It’s easy! It’s a poet!’

The paper’s in the waste bin,

My biro snapped in two.

I’ve spent ages on this crossword,

And she solves the final clue!

‘I thought that six across was wrong.’

‘When you put it in.’ She said.

‘Good for you.’, I mutter,

And stomp off up to bed.