I was looking at a site earlier that mentioned nicknames and it got me thinking about all the nicknames I’ve ever been given.  At secondary school I was always Sprog, or Fishie, or Preggers.  That was because of my horrible surname.  I’ve since changed my name.  Why my dad didn’t do it when he was younger I don’t know.  Oh, yes I do.  His mother was upset that he would want to change it.  Which is strange really because she didn’t particularly love his father and only married him because she was expecting my dad.  She never fell out of love with her first husband but he died after only four years of marriage after a bout of meningitus.  She met my grandfather during WWII when she worked for him as a housekeeper.  Much to the annoyance of his kids who were the same age as her, in their thirties, she fell pregnant and he married her.  Apparently when my dad was a nipper she used to tell him she was going to stick her head in the oven.  How nice.  But she was a delightful woman and I did love her dearly.  Anyways, back to nicknames.  At Sixth Form I was Lizzie Birdsworth because of my name and also because I was a big fan of Prisoner: Cell Block H.  I was also Orange, but that’s a long story and we won’t discuss that .

So back to my dad.  I thought I might as well talk about him.  This place gives me somewhere to vent my feelings after all.  I don’t particularly like him.  I do pity him.  I used to hate him.  Little girls should be Daddy’s Princess.  I don’t ever remember being that.  He left when I was five and moved in with a woman who had two little girls of her own and they started calling him “Daddy” even though they were still in contact with their dad.  It’s the little things that hurt.  Just the fact that they called him that was a start.  But he used to say the nastiest things about my mumsy in front of us.  She was always “That Woman”.  I was late for school once because he phoned and was arguing with mum and I refused to leave the house because I knew she was upset.  Mum has a piece of torn brown envelope somewhere that contains the simple message “Homes are for mummy’s, we all love you”.  I wrote that aged five.  Once I was feeling ill and he insisted on me going out with him.  So later on I threw up in his kitchen sink.  And to think that he’d thought I was lying.  Then he got married and I’m convinced that the first I knew about it was seeing a photo of him and my step-mum with my step-sisters and my half-brother at the signing of the register.  I’ll never forgive him for that.  Is it wrong to not forgive someone for hurting you when that person should have been treating you like the most precious person in his life?  I don’t feel bitter.  I was very resentful as a teenager though.  There were times when I was so resentful that I hurt my mum a lot and I do sincerely regret that.  The ace thing is that me and mum have a perfect relationship now.  I don’t see my dad anymore.  He’s just some bloke who lives in the Midlands.  I don’t know if my brothers see him … it’s not something we ever talk about.  There are occasions when I think how nice it would have been if he had been able to be civil to mum in front of me because maybe then I’d still want to be his daughter.  But he was a complete bastard to her.

Ah, enough of the deep and meaningful woe-is-me shit that I’m spouting.  It’s silly really.  If it really means nothing to me then why write about it.  I love my muddled mind!

On a lighter note … I finally managed to type up my dissertation and it’s online at my site.  Hurrah!  And my tooth hurts.  Or is it my gums?  About ten years ago my wisdom teeth decided to spring into action.  But then they decided that they were simply jesting and they never made it to the Outside World.  Ever since then I’ve had an occasional twinge but the other day it suddenly flared up.  It’s my bottom right wisdom tooth.  It’s finally decided to put in an appearance.  And ouch does it hurt!  Now I know why teething babies constantly cry.  The gum is inflamed and I can feel the tooth just below the surface.  It better not be jesting again.  It’s about time I had a wisdom tooth.  Everybody else has them.  Humph.

Tomorrow myself and The Blokey are off to Kent.  A couple of days of being-togetherness is probably just the tonic I need.  Hopefully on Monday we’ll be popping into Ikea at Thurrock on the way home because I need a new computer desk and he needs a chair but I need a chair as well, so I think that it could well be an expensive weekend.  Next week will be bliss … a whole week off school.  Oh, what shall I do with myself …

My little nephew Adam, who will be two in December, has finally decided that he has a big enough vocabulary to start talking.  He was always quite quiet and then last month his older brother William started school so Adam now talks.  The other weekend they went to some fair or something and he was sitting on a bench and said something along the lines of, “And here we are, watching the world go by”.  I thought that was so sweet.  I really ought to see him more.  He looks like a little rugby player. 

God Bless my nephews, for they are so scrummy xxx Elsabeth


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