I’ve written a letter to Daddy...

No not Daddy Shortlegs but my own father. I ask for a copy of my letter to be sent to the undertaker (or does everyone say Funeral Director now) who still remembers when my mother was buried nearly forty years ago. Like many others in our small town, he had assumed that my Nan would be buried with her. By involving the undertaker, my father has an opportunity to do the right thing through him, without having to break our silence of 26 years.

I suppose I thought if I appealed to my father he would say yes, and the fact the undertaker was involved may also make him think about his public image. As it happens I overestimated his ability to be a decent human being. He couldn’t be arsed to talk to either of us but used my sister as a go-between – the way that he and his hateful wife have always used his children as a weapon to hurt others.

My sister Jennifer clings on to the belief that my father is worth knowing: she’s wrong. Just like she’s wrong about the sort of clothes a short overweight woman of forty should wear. But with my stepmother Barbara (emphasis on the Barb) as a role model it’s surprising she has any sense at all let alone dress sense. What chance did Jennifer have to grow up with any sense of right when that family can only concentrate on the wrongs done them? Barbara has what you could call ‘googly eyes’. Surprising she has them and not my dad as you would have expected his to pop out from the exertion of having her hand up his arse working his mouth for thirty years.

My Gramps called my stepmother ‘the barren cow’ as she couldn’t have children. That didn’t stop her putting her udders on display as she loved a low cut dress. God knew she shouldn’t have children even if social services got it wrong and the court allowed them to have us. We would have done better being raised by wolves. Yes that’s Barbara – a wolf in cow’s clothing.