‘Dad, I don’t want to be rotten but,’ she paused, contemplating her next assertion before obviously deciding that street cred’ was more important than the feelings of the swamp creature. She frowned and came to a decision. ‘If you’re really going to leave the house, then you’re on your own.’
Never mind that I cleared up gallons of projectile vomit, took my life in my hands fighting with toxic nappies, and redecorated her bedroom eighty times as her choice of boy-bands changed by the minute, but now, at my darkest hour, my alleged daughter doesn’t want to be seen with me. And this from someone who has an enormous poster of Justin Bieber on her wall!!!!!!!
‘It’s not like I don’t love you, but it’s just that…’
I knew what she was trying go say, but after a week of fighting a condition more revolting than the most lurid B movie special effect, I was tired, in pain and any vestige of humour gone with the cats who immediately bolt at the very sight of my red blobbiness.
‘I’m not contagious.’ I remind her, to no avail.
‘I know that,’ she said patiently, ‘but the rest of the world doesn’t. They’ll think you’re some kind of reject from Alien. And that’s Alien One,’ she reiterated, lest I’d missed her less than subtle movie reference.
Six days, went the blurb thrown at me by a quivering doctor. After six days my revolting visage would return to normal.
‘Oh no,’ she tripped gaily said from the sanctuary of the telephone, today, a week later, ‘it could be up to three weeks. Just keep rubbing on the calomine. You’ll be fine.’ I resisted the impulse to inform her where she could insert the calomine.
On the upside…except there is no upside. I’m going to be a grumpy old git and there’s nothing anyone can do to stop me.