I'd postponed visiting Dad for long enough successfully but couldn't continue doing so as the day dedicated to him approached - Father's Day. If ever there's a day where self-imposed guilt for being a crap daughter is prevalent, it's that day. Every year. I called him a couple of days before to book in my visit - I'm aware that makes it sound like one of us is doing porridge, not sure which of us though. Once Dad realised it was me on the 'phone he turned in to a comedian. "Who? Oh, you! I'd forgotten your name seeing as you haven't been in touch for ages. What do you look like again?" Apparently, being the child in this relationship means I should call him, not the other way around. But we all knew that anyway.
On the Sunday I was feeling a little fragile of ego having been stood up the day before (that's a story for another time) and fragile of mind having got drunk on copious amounts of lychee martinis with friends the night before so I had to suck it up to the best of my ability and muster up more patience than usual. As I walked through the front door I was bombarded with lectures disguised as questions. "Where's your hair gone?" was the first. As you may be aware, Dad hates that I take care of my appearance and refuse to be a 'plain Jane'. I had my hair cut a couple of weeks ago - it's still long but instead of being half way down my back, it's now just below my shoulders. Dad had issues with the fact that I was wearing it down, that it has a style and that I flick it about like I've just stepped out of a salon. He'd also rather it was hip length with no style and always, always, worn in a plait. Thus not getting in the way when performing good, little Hindu girl duties such as cooking, cleaning and sitting demurely in a corner.
After the hair lecture came the usual ones but a different order to last time; make-up, nail varnish, not visiting enough, inappropriateness of the clothes I was wearing, loyalty to Mum and, of course, marriage. Ah, my old, faithful friend - the marriage sermon. I think it was on its way to pay me a visit anyway but was hurried along on its journey by my mentioning a friend was getting married that week and I was doing hers and her bridesmaids' make-up. This received two tuts; the first was because my friends are getting married and I'm not and the second was for me daring to continue with my exploration of the creativity of make-up artistry. Why can't my hobby be retraining to become a lawyer? Or finding a husband who is a lawyer? Or a doctor? Or a dentist? Or an accountant? You get the gist.
The second lecture on nail varnish came soon after the first. Dad moaned at me now about the shade of my nail apparel, rather than its presence. I hadn't chosen a subtle colour (it's summer, subtle shades are useless!) but a vibrant, pillar-box red. Or 'whore red', as I call it. "It'll get you unwanted male attention!" Erm, who said it's unwanted? I resisted the urge to say that though what very nearly did slip out of my mouth was, "If you think this is bad, Dad, you should see my underwear collection!" but I value every bone in my body being unbroken so I kept schtum.
The next two hours passed pretty quickly as I helped Brat-Child do her homework, got shouted at by Brat-Child for helping her do her homework and got told off by Dad for helping Brat-Child do her homework properly. I then, for one moment, managed to impress Dad with my chapatti making skills. It was only a fleeting praise-inciting incident, no need for concern as I was not in any danger of becoming Golden Child. And then I was home again, back in the sanctuary that is my boudoir.
Whilst at Dad's, I'd given him a card. On the front it read, "Happy Father's Day From A Fabulous Daughter" - the irony was wasted on him as what he acknowledged it with, "(Insert Brat-Child's name) made me a card, look". For years I made him cards, years, and he never appreciated my efforts, instead binning my handmade tokens of love and appreciation the very next day.
A week later, Dad drove past me around the corner from my house. As he tooted his horn I waved, as it was natural instinct to do so but it was only when I caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror I realised Dad was angry. It took me a couple of seconds to register why but then as I looked down I worked out why. Shit biscuits! It was a scorching day, absolutely boiling, and I was wearing a v-neck vest top with a sheer cardigan over it and a skirt with the hem-line a good few inches above my knees - Uh oh, legs and cleavage on show! I expected a lecture via the telephone all evening but the call never came.
The next day was Dad's birthday. I called him in the evening to play the dutiful daughter. Just as he was about to launch in to a sermon on how crap I was for leaving it so late in the day to call (he'd conveniently forgotten he'd left it even later to contact me on my birthday) and, no doubt, address yesterday's outfit-gate, I explained that I'd landed myself in hospital on a drip that morning having passed out a couple of times - a valid reason, I think. Obviously his paternal instinct kicked in and after assuring him I was fine and just needed a couple of days to rest, he had forgiven me for not calling sooner or popping round to visit. Instead he promised he'd visit me at home the next day (much to Mum's delight!).
The following day, whilst taking my umpteenth necessary nap, my mobile alerted me to an incoming call from Dad's house 'phone. It was his wife, enquiring after my health. She then asked if the previous day's events had been due to the early stages of pregnancy. It took all the energy I had (and it was in limited supply) to not tell her to fuck off. Of course, Dad was out of earshot when she asked that question, I'm his good, virginal, little Hindu girl, remember? I don't know why I was surprised she'd asked such a ridiculous question; this was the woman who, less than twelve hours after I was admitted in to hospital with a seeping appendix (that burst on the operating table) at the age of nineteen, told me and Mum it was due to alcoholism. Jeepers! See what I have to deal with?! Needless to say, Dad didn't visit me. Another broken promise to add to the collection. Perhaps next time I venture to his I'll lecture him on his lack of visitation skills. I've heard plenty in my time to be well-versed! x
