Feel the force Lizzy

Had a brief moment of Kill Bill panic tonight. Owen came bustling in the door after a day supping Yorkshire Tea and snuffling Custard Creams with flirtatious, botox-enhanced rich old dears and flew straight over to Lizzy in an enthusiastic gonna do the step dad bit and it's going to work whether she likes it or not fashion. Right then.

"Alllor Lizzeh, what you been oop to den?" he said, in what was actually, for a Scottish person, a marginally humorous Yorkshire accent. He was trying. Lizzy, in usual fashion when Owen tries this tack millimetres from her face and she's in the middle of watching Storymakers or Something Special, clamped her mouth tightly shut, turned her screwed up face away and began making traumatised mmm, mmm, mmm noises, eyebrows knitted, knees defensively round her ears.

The Beatrix Kiddo sound effect of impending vengeance resounded in my ears and, to my dismay, my own mother's words began to reverberate around my head. "I'm sick to death being piggy in the middle round here." I felt nauseous. "Lizzy," my subconscious cried. "Hear my voice, this is your Jedi master, Obi-Wan. Be nice, smile, feel the force. It is your destiny." "Mmmmmm, mmmmm, mmmm". Dejected, he was gone, off to the computer to check whether his own, the nine and four-year-old products of his own loins, the pair who whimper daily, "daddy, we miss you", are logged onto Messenger, whether there's any small hope of an impromptu webcam session.

I've been Lizzy, been the spanner in the proverbials, made my mother's relationship with her new fella more difficult solely because "he" wasn't my dad. And thoroughly enjoyed it. Loved seeing my stepdad squirm as I lit the candles around my REAL father's shrine in the corner of the bedroom, only just resisting the urge to throw up my hands and cry "father, why have thy forsaken thee."

Fifteen years passed before I relented but, these days, I'm pleased to say my stepdad and I are like peas and carrots, to coin a simplistic yet oh so perfectly astute turn of phrase. I genuinely wish, however, we could have had had this relationship much earlier on. With this in mind, I put Lizzy to bed and before Little Red Riding Hood, attempt to tell the story of my mummy, my daddy, step dad Thomas and me.

"There once was a girl called Penelope who had a sister called Kelly who had a mummy and daddy and they all lived in a happy house together. Then one day it was a SAD day (cue frown) and mummy and daddy said they didn't want to live with one another any more." The story continued with mummy wanting to live with another man, Penelope adamantly refusing to budge while sister built treehouses and sandcastles with new father figure, until the ultimate crowd pleaser, "Thomas and Penelope one day realised they could also have fun together and slowly learnt to love each other." (Applause).

I decided to go for broke and pop the question. "You know someone else who has a mummy and daddy who don't live together?" "No?", she said absent mindedly, inspecting instead deshevelled teddy Bunty's unfortunate mortar wound and escaping cotton wool balls. "How about someone beginning with L," I offered. "Lizzy!", she exclaimed, always incredibly proud of the fact she knows her name begins with the aforementioned letter. "And the man who lives with your mummy?". "Is it daddy?", she ventured hopefully. "No, try again," I said kindly. "Owen?". Yes. Finally. I waited for the growing realisation that there was a moral to the story and the fact there might actually be fun to be had. And there it was. The smile slowly crept across her cherub little face.

"Ni' Nite," I said, knowing exactly when enough was enough for one night, and pulled the pink daisy duvet up to her chin. "Ni' nite mumma," she smiled. "Sweet dreams," we both said. I kissed her forehead, pressed play on the CD player and let My Bonny lies over the Ocean begin to quietly filter across the room. Lights out and I made my way downstairs to a welcome glass of rich Ruby Cabernet and an aimless wander through cyberspace while Owen caught up with the European Championships.

Peace. Contentment. At last. Admittedly a few nerves before interview with PR firm tomorrow, but generally feeling calm. Soon sleep and dreams of writer's block on deadline while administering Calpol.

Midnight. I creep upstairs and quietly enter Lizzy's room, lit up faintly by a dinky orange night light plugged into the socket by the door, heralded by a 'Princess Sleeping' sign. And she is asleep, bless her, a small smile on her peachy little lips, raggedy old Bunty pressed against her cheek.

And, like treasure safeguarded by the knights of the last crusade, a wooden framed photograph sits protectively under her arm. A picture from long ago. Of Lizzy and daddy.