I’m still feeling queasy after six decades and more at the thought of an old aluminium pan,

Brought out once a week for the most odious tasks by my grandmother, god bless her, my gran.

It was kept on a shelf as you entered the cellar, next to the mouse traps and bleach,

Hidden from view unless you knew it was there, and purposely, for us, out of reach.

It had an ill-fitting lid and a few dents and scratches, and housed tongs made of metal and wood,

There was no mistaking that the pan wasn’t for cooking, god forbid that anyone should.

Boiling bogies on your hankies was the thing to do in the 60s, and usually a job for the wife.

Each week on washday, the hankies were gathered, and boiled within an inch of their life.

A bit of Omo or Daz, and a splash of washing soda, and stirred with the tongs did the trick.

Dissolving the bogies and mucus, the thought of it now makes me sick.

Rinsed and rinsed again, they were hung out to dry like white flags surrendering to the breeze,

Gleaming white and off to be ironed, ready for the next blow or sneeze.

Thank goodness for disposable tissues, let’s relegate hankies to the realm of the past,

Let’s hope the pan got disposed of… mind you, aluminium was meant to last.

So if you have in your pantry, a shelf with tongs, and an old pan with lid,

Just don’t boil the potatoes or pasta, unless you’re sure of what it once did.