Daddy was a property man, a gazillionaire.
Daddy shoehorned him into the company so he could spend his days sucking our senses dry, twiddling the cord on his Nortel phone and talking to his mate Henry, while we tried our best to ignore him by putting one finger in front of the other, in some vain attempt to spell out work ethic.
He held no truck with that, real work was so like for losers like, so he'd loudly break our spirits with stroppings, stormings off and rages against the clock. Trust Fund Baby, a cock of a man.
Work became a better place for his absence, a lighter existence, and I had forgotten all the things about him until Monday night when I headed for the local supermarker in the pissings of rain.
Having picked up my box of tea-bags and two Icebergers I queued up, my brain switching to that age old 'Jaffa: Biscuit or cake?' debate when I heard my name being called.
My ten-year-old raincoat and paint-stained tracksuit bottoms, invited to a stand off with Trust Fund Baby's perfectly appointed Louis Copeland suit.
There was some guff about how life is and then the revelation that he lives in the next block up, intermingling some part-time work on Daddy's dime with daytime shots of vodka and Jeremy Kyle.
I made as nice as I could before spitting my way back home, unleafing my ice cream treat while cursing and blustering to Fitzbollix. As ever, there came a sympathetic ear from a man who probably just wanted me to shut up complaining and switch on the kettle.