I slipped silently along the corridors, a seemingly impossible task when wearing stiletto heels, and bee-lined for my target. I approached the great baboon, sitting there like a sack of potatoes in a fluorescent yellow shirt, with his wife, who resembled more of an unfortunate man, sitting like a puppet by his side. As I cornered in on the despicable duo I centred my attention on the seemingly endless coil of fat wrapped around my fathers neck and shuddered at the knowledge that those genes are sitting in my body, waiting to attack at middle age.
He glanced at me nervously, a fact I revelled in, knowing that at 16 my biological father who abandoned my siblings and I many years earlier was as scared of me as a liar is of truth, before greeting me in his uneducated slang. I dismissed his insincere greeting before it finished exiting his lopsided mouth and made it crystal clear that I had slipped away from the watchful eyes of my Mums friend for one reason only; to settle an o