I feel dirty, oh so dirty

And what, you might ask, is the reason that I feel so dirty that I had to name it twice. A few nights ago, my father basically forced me to speak to his woman on the phone. To be fair to her, she was forced, too. I mean, what could I say when he asked, “Do you want to say hello to Mistress?”; likewise she, when he said: “Come and say hello to Nowt.” It was awkward, although she was pleasant (not that I expected any other); I also was pleasant, natch.

It was the first time that we had spoken to each other. I guess I’d best get used to it: there’s talk of him coming to visit (but not to stay) with her and her kids. You know how much I love kids... and these are virtually my step-siblings, and both are not even into their teenage years. Oh yuck – it’s all so horrifying. I thought I’d been spared this sort of messiness when my parents’ marriage lasted 35 years or so.

Feeling dirty is so much less fun than feeling dirrty.