“Hey groovlings,” Dad said. He was fond of ancient idiomatic terms. I found it cringeable.
He was sat in the front offside seat of our Nisbang Misogynist, which is one of those excessively large vehicles beloved of trades, especially the hyper-masculine ones like Kitchen Cinching. Dad was one of those, you could tell by the big yellow toolbelt he always wore. I’m a librarian-spandicle. Don’t ask, just don’t visit a library in spandex. He says its chick-work, which is okay because I haven’t decided on my gender yet. Maybe I won’t, just to confuse him. He laughs like it’s the funniest joke, which irritates me more than it should. He’s about as funny as a full nappy.
