As it transpired, I was right. Finally, I summoned the courage to inquire directly as to the circumstances of my creation,
and to seek any available information about the mythical donor of spermatozoan, my father.
As any child would in such circumstances—possibly even more so, in my particular circumstances—
I had been harboring a small but intense fantasy about the character and appearance of my absent parent.
She laughed and laughed. “Donor? Did I really say that? It was simply a metaphor, darling,” she said.
Another word I’d have to look up. “I was actually trying to spare your feelings.
It was more of a... compulsory donation, shall we say. I had no choice in the matter.
Do you understand what I’m telling you?” I said that I did, but I was fibbing.
“Where does he live, Mummy?” I asked, feeling brave. “What does he look like, what does he do?”
“I can’t remember what he looked like,” she said, her tone dismissive, bored.
“He smelled like high game and liquefied Roquefort, if that’s any help.”
I must have looked puzzled. She leaned forward, showed me her teeth.
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