She didn’t know what to do. I had her - how dare she not understand what I had been through, my entire life not knowing who my father was? What characteristics of his did I have? Did we have similar personalities? Why did he not want to get in contact with me? Why? Did he ever think about me? Did he ever think about contacting me? Did he know that mother had died? I just didn’t think that this fat oaf in front of me knew any of this. “Well, yes, yes, you do have the, the same..eyebrows, yes I see it now.” She stuttered. “Yes you see it now, YOU SEE IT NOW, YOU SEE HIM! YOU SEE ME! HIM, ME - THE SAME!”
And I snatched the picture out of her hand and strode out of the reception,
pleased and satisfied that no-one gets the better of me, no one gets the better of the daughter of John Jones.
The internet was fruitless - it was impossible to find information without a National Insurance number, birth place, or some history on my father. All I had was his name and the photograph. So I decided to change my approach and try some locals at the public houses around the Cathays and Roath areas of Cardiff. I’d thought best to walk into the bars, order a gin and slimline tonic – I decided that I did need to go back on a diet after all, I didn’t want to look like that heffer in the University – and ask the barmen, and barflies if they recognised the picture of my father. I conducted my search, bar after bar. Shake of head after shake of head. Each
bar, a new barman, a new rejection, another polite G & T. Finally at The Poets Corner, I hit a breakthrough. The bartender thought that he recognised my father, he thought that maybe he’d seen him in here drinking a couple of weeks back, but he was ever so busy and couldn’t remember right away. He said, if I hung around until the end of the shift then he would have another look at the picture, and maybe he could help me out. Well this was the only breakthrough I had. I knew that he was probably trying it on, but I was desperate and tired and I couldn’t face another day of traipsing around Cardiff public houses. So I took a chance and stayed for another couple of hours until the punters were kicked out and I was just left with the barman putting chairs on tables, cleaning and restocking the fridges. He wasted no time, pulled me towards him and kissed me hard. I didn’t bother
putting up any resistance, I was still feeling frustrated from last night and I thought what the hell. As he jacked at me like a rabbit on the bar, he screamed at me “I’m your daddy, I’M YOUR DADDY!”….to be continued in the next issue of Square!
Jon Dve h ais 26
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