’
Sacha began to fiddle with her own phone, texting.
‘That wasn’t a request,’ I said. ‘It was an order. Just phone them back, Sacha. Tell them you were joking.’
‘But I wasn’t joking. You’re acting in breach of my fundamental human rights. I’ve asked a lawyer. We’re going to apply for an injunction.’
She pressed send as a snorting bus loomed in my rear window. Harassed, I pulled into the road only to be hooted at by a harridan in an Audi. The whole world hates me, I thought. The world, including my own daughter.
‘The lawyer is also going to find my father,’ said Sacha. ‘She says I have a right to a genetic and cultural heritage.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I slapped a hand to my brow. ‘How many more times?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You shagged a bloke after a party, and you didn’t even ask his surname?’
‘Yes, actually! I didn’t ask for a name or address or phone number because I thought there was time for that. Your father was the love of my life for about five hours, until he staggered off to the shower and never came back. I’m sure he was a decent boy, and I’ve forgiven him. He left me the most precious gift in the world.’
‘Did he also leave a glass slipper?’
I screeched in frustration, but she wasn’t moved.
‘Some married man, I’ll bet. MP? Doctor? Vicar? You’ve stolen my identity to protect his .’
‘Have you really seen a lawyer?’ I asked, but she’d begun typing another text. These were her friends, these people who flashed upon her screen with their indolent spelling and acronyms.
‘Have you seen who?’ chirped Finn, from the back. ‘Who, Sacha? Who, who, who?’
‘Look at that sporty car with no woof,’ cried Charlie. ‘They’re getting wet!’
Sacha twisted in her seat. ‘One day, you two little loonies will have a sporty car with no woof. You’ll share it. The boy with the hottest chick gets to use the wheels.’
‘We’ll take you for rides,’ Finn promised kindly, while his brother made a variety of sporty car noises.
Sacha hadn’t been to a lawyer. I knew she was winding me up, once I’d thought about it calmly. I turned in at our gate, thinking uneasy thoughts about Sacha’s father. I wished he knew he had such a daughter. I wished she knew she had such a father. They both had much to gain, and much to lose.
I really didn’t want to read the bit of paper that Rothman tart had given me.
In the good old days at primary school, Sacha’s class used to waste their Monday mornings, week after week, writing What I Did at the Weekend. It’s an inane exercise. When I am dictator, it will be banned in all schools.
But I still kept those little exercise books. Sometimes, when clearing out the attic or packing to emigrate, I flicked through them. They recalled those halcyon days through a soft-focus lens. It was like living in a chocolate box.
At the weekend my Mum and me went to a caffay. I had hot choclat with white and pink mashmalos. We sat at a tabel by the fire. It raned outside but we were cosy. It was luvly.
At the weekend my Mum took me rideing. My pony was calld Wendy. Mum showed me how to feed Wendy appels. She sed Wendy likes me.
At the weekend I got stung by a be. My Mum cuddled me and put speshal creem on from her hambag. It made me beta.
At the weekend my Mum got marryd. I was the brides made. I had a yelow silk dress, white shoes and gorjus flowers in my hair. Mum lookd like Cinderella at the ball and everywon wanted to kiss her. She said she still loves me most in the wurld. I said I love her more.
Compare and contrast:
You know what? My mother has no humility. She thinks she’s perfect. People don’t realise this simple fact about her.
When you’re small, your mother’s a goddess. But when you grow up you realise she’s anything but. My friends reckon she is cool. Some of the guys even think she’s hot, which is just plain sick. People think she’s so HUMAN. She laughs about her legs and her double
Sacha began to fiddle with her own phone, texting.
‘That wasn’t a request,’ I said. ‘It was an order. Just phone them back, Sacha. Tell them you were joking.’
‘But I wasn’t joking. You’re acting in breach of my fundamental human rights. I’ve asked a lawyer. We’re going to apply for an injunction.’
She pressed send as a snorting bus loomed in my rear window. Harassed, I pulled into the road only to be hooted at by a harridan in an Audi. The whole world hates me, I thought. The world, including my own daughter.
‘The lawyer is also going to find my father,’ said Sacha. ‘She says I have a right to a genetic and cultural heritage.’
‘For God’s sake!’ I slapped a hand to my brow. ‘How many more times?’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. You shagged a bloke after a party, and you didn’t even ask his surname?’
‘Yes, actually! I didn’t ask for a name or address or phone number because I thought there was time for that. Your father was the love of my life for about five hours, until he staggered off to the shower and never came back. I’m sure he was a decent boy, and I’ve forgiven him. He left me the most precious gift in the world.’
‘Did he also leave a glass slipper?’
I screeched in frustration, but she wasn’t moved.
‘Some married man, I’ll bet. MP? Doctor? Vicar? You’ve stolen my identity to protect his .’
‘Have you really seen a lawyer?’ I asked, but she’d begun typing another text. These were her friends, these people who flashed upon her screen with their indolent spelling and acronyms.
‘Have you seen who?’ chirped Finn, from the back. ‘Who, Sacha? Who, who, who?’
‘Look at that sporty car with no woof,’ cried Charlie. ‘They’re getting wet!’
Sacha twisted in her seat. ‘One day, you two little loonies will have a sporty car with no woof. You’ll share it. The boy with the hottest chick gets to use the wheels.’
‘We’ll take you for rides,’ Finn promised kindly, while his brother made a variety of sporty car noises.
Sacha hadn’t been to a lawyer. I knew she was winding me up, once I’d thought about it calmly. I turned in at our gate, thinking uneasy thoughts about Sacha’s father. I wished he knew he had such a daughter. I wished she knew she had such a father. They both had much to gain, and much to lose.
I really didn’t want to read the bit of paper that Rothman tart had given me.
In the good old days at primary school, Sacha’s class used to waste their Monday mornings, week after week, writing What I Did at the Weekend. It’s an inane exercise. When I am dictator, it will be banned in all schools.
But I still kept those little exercise books. Sometimes, when clearing out the attic or packing to emigrate, I flicked through them. They recalled those halcyon days through a soft-focus lens. It was like living in a chocolate box.
At the weekend my Mum and me went to a caffay. I had hot choclat with white and pink mashmalos. We sat at a tabel by the fire. It raned outside but we were cosy. It was luvly.
At the weekend my Mum took me rideing. My pony was calld Wendy. Mum showed me how to feed Wendy appels. She sed Wendy likes me.
At the weekend I got stung by a be. My Mum cuddled me and put speshal creem on from her hambag. It made me beta.
At the weekend my Mum got marryd. I was the brides made. I had a yelow silk dress, white shoes and gorjus flowers in my hair. Mum lookd like Cinderella at the ball and everywon wanted to kiss her. She said she still loves me most in the wurld. I said I love her more.
Compare and contrast:
You know what? My mother has no humility. She thinks she’s perfect. People don’t realise this simple fact about her.
When you’re small, your mother’s a goddess. But when you grow up you realise she’s anything but. My friends reckon she is cool. Some of the guys even think she’s hot, which is just plain sick. People think she’s so HUMAN. She laughs about her legs and her double
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