Yesterday at the French
restaurant while my father was working his
way through his oysters, he asked me who'd
set it up. I stupidly asked what. The PC.
Of course, HIS present! Proof that he's a good father and that
he hadn't forgotten his silly daughter.
I almost said "the guy
that delivered it", because that was the truth
and I ought to stop lying to my father.
But my father wouldn't have been too
happy about the thought of a foreigner coming into
my room. He's not too keen on
foreigners. The deliveryman was a foreigner - I think he
came from Indonesia. I told him that I
managed all on my own and
I could feel myself blushing. It's awful, I'm always lying
to him, and then I pray for his soul, whereas it's mine
that's on the road to perdition.
I sometimes wonder how my father
managed to marry
an Irishwoman, and a catholic on top of that! He
always says "your holy mother" when he talks about
her, and it gets my back up. It's
true, my mother was a saint, but
that's no reason to make snide remarks about her.
|
