Sat between maudlin pensioners and three-foot hyperactive nutters in Sainsbury’s Café is how I have come to spend my Saturday afternoons. Alone. While my own child - a veritable social butterfly - is enjoying Dad’s access time with her friends at the Sullivan Street 'Drama Group'. At my expense in more ways than one.

I drain my cup and flinch. Why do pots of tea in supermarket cafés always seem great value when you're at the till? First cup usually tastes OK and so it should. You're in control of your own destiny with that first cup, but by the time you're ready for the second it's that horrible combination of stewed and tepid. You never go out on a high with a pot of supermarket café tea. It always peaks too soon.

I rise from my seat and 'forget' to return Sainsbury's dog-eared copy of The Sun as I haven't read the football pull-out yet. 'See you love', I say with exaggerated cheeriness to the café cashier. She looks straight through me. Perhaps my spontaneous politeness doesn't translate. Or perhaps she recognises sarcasm when she sees it.

I need to get a wriggle on so I exit Sainsbury's, jog past my car and cut through the retail park to the busy street. It's only across the road, but every time I lift a foot off the kerb a car comes haring round the corner; every one a boy racer on his Saturday afternoon burn-up. I’ve almost been parted from my right leg by two Citroen Saxos, a blacked out Golf and one of those silly fucking Subaru Impreza’s with the gold alloys. I’ve just about resigned myself to never getting across this road when I hear a shout and catch sight of something white in the sunlight. Then my face is mashed. And there’s laughter. And I’m wet from cheekbone to man breast. What the fuck was that?

Half my face is numb and it’s not just wet, it’s sticky. I look down and see the remains of the missile, a KFC Pepsi carton. It must have been full and it’s a large one, not your regular size. What kind of dickhead would waste one pound odd on a large drink? Patently one that feels he gets better value for money chucking it at a defenceless pedestrian. The fucker must have asked for extra ice too judging by the weight of it. Talk about fully loaded. Or does force times speed equal extra weightage? It’s got to. I’m sure my face is swelling. Out of my good eye I can see I’m attracting looks of disgust from parents who have safely navigated the road in the opposite direction with their ‘ever so talented’ offspring. They shield their children from me as though I’m aggressor rather than victim.

‘Mr Abbott?’ shouts a voice softly feminine, but not quite angelic. Well, this is one of the grittier parts of Greater Manchester.

‘Yes’, I say, blinking Pepsi out of my eye.

My six-year old daughter waits with her teacher at the ‘Drama Group’ gates looking almost as bewildered as I feel. I can’t move. I can only stand on shaky limbs until my arm is taken by a robust senior citizen in what feels like a cruel role-reversal embarrassment for bunking off bob-a-job week all those years ago.

‘Come on son’ she says dragging me across the road, her free hand ordering traffic to halt.

I reach Katy, still trembling with anger rising. I feel… violated.

If only I’d had a chance to defend myself.

If only the little twats had stopped and asked me if I wanted to ‘make something of it’.

I would have made something of it too. I would have ripped their shitting heads off.
‘Are you crying Daddy?’
‘No, it’s just pop, sweetheart. Come on let’s get you home.’

* * * * * *

We’re sat in the car, Katy and me. I haven’t been able to get a word in edgeways, but that’s normal. What’s less normal is I’m not listening. I’m still seething over the Pepsi incident. I’m even thinking about going back to retrieve the wax carton to see if it’s worth preserving for the DNA it will undoubtedly hold of my assailant. Think about it, saliva on the straw before he decided to hurl it in my direction, fingerprints from the toe-rag’s grubby little mitts, a fibre from his boy racer pal’s motor. Yes, I could have the shyster yet.

‘You’re not listening, are you?’

‘Hmm, course I am, babe. Stop flicking the light on.’

Katy withdraws her arm from the overhead light with a tut. ‘What did I say then?’

‘You were telling me about singing practice.’

‘That was ten minutes ago.’

‘Oh. Sorry.’

‘I was saying Patrick Darbyshire was trying to look up Felicia Henderson-Mellor’s skirt again’.

‘Was he? Well maybe FHM should start wearing leggings like you’.
‘FHM?’

‘Felicia what’s-her-face.’

‘Henderson-Mellor. She doesn’t like her name being shortened.’

‘She’ll have to get used to it with a gobful like that. Hey, isn’t there a girl called Henderson-Peters?’

‘No’, sighs Katy. ’That was Felicia. Her Mum lives with another man now’.

Katy falls silent. Its three minutes to six. She knows the drill. I won’t be restarting my engine for another two minutes. Why should I? My access times are twelve till six on alternate Saturday’s and since my bitch of an ex-wife has deliberately stiffed me by enrolling Katy with this song and dance malarkey for precisely half that time I’m taking every second I’m entitled too. In fact the mood I’m in I might push it to five past today, let’s see how she likes being pissed about.

‘Mum’s going to be really cross with you’, Katy comments helpfully, glancing at the dashboard clock.

‘What, for a change?’

I get the look. It’s her mothers look.

‘OK, I quit,’ I say.

‘Hmm, that’s what Gran calls you. A quitter.’

‘Pardon?’

‘She says since you dropped out of University you’ve never seen anything through.’
‘Well, your Gran…’

Katy looks at me expectantly.

… may have a point.’

I turn the ignition key half expecting to have a flat battery, but if a Skoda Octavia can roar then roar it does.

‘Why are you in such a grumpy mood?’

I smile at her as I move through the gears. ‘A multitude of reasons, but none of them caused by you, darling.’
‘Well you shouldn’t be grumpy until you’ve dropped me off then.’

‘You’re right, as usual.’

And she is. I’ll have plenty of time to be miserable later. My plans for the weekend are spookily similar to every weekend for the last four months.

Fuck. All.

Katy gets out of the car a little too eagerly for my liking and is ringing the bell while I am still figuring out how to turn the internal light off.

‘Hi Mum!’

‘Hello gorgeous.’

I turn with my best ‘who me?’ expression, but like most things it’s wasted on the woman.

‘How was Drama Group?’

‘It was great, Mum. I’ve got to learn ‘The Sun’ll Come Out Tomorrow’ for next week.’

Katy bursts into song, emphasising ‘Tomorrow’ in an American accent.

‘Oh, that’s excellent.’

Then Becky turns to me.

‘What time do you call this?’

I shrug.

‘Seven minutes past.’ .

I shrug again.

‘Why are you late?’

‘The traffic was heavy. What can I say?’

‘Is this right, Katy? Was the road busy coming home?’

‘Er, I didn’t really notice.’
‘She was too busy playing with the overhead light.’

Becky isn’t satisfied, but decides to let it go.

‘OK, darling, you go and get changed.’

‘OK, bye Dad.’

‘See you. Love you.’

She doesn’t stop for a kiss; she’s far too busy.

‘Well I suppose I’d better be making tracks,’ I say to Becky.

‘Did you know you’ve got a big brown stain on your shirt?’

Becky has this in-built skill for making me feel worthless and she takes great pride in demonstrating it. The disgust on her face has my personal esteem plummeting faster than a fat man in a barrel going over Niagara Falls. I look down at my favourite white linen shirt and am reminded of the full enormity of the carbonised horror that befell me.

‘I got a drink chucked at me, Bec.’

By my standards it’s a fairly subtle cry for help, but any hope of a sympathetic response I may have held are instantly extinguished.

‘I think it suits you being able to spend the afternoon in the pub while Katy’s at drama.’

‘The pub? I haven’t been in the pub. I’ve been nursing a pot of tea in Sainsbury’s Caff and the drink was a fast-flying-fast-food Pepsi, chucked with great force and without warning from a moving car as I was attempting to collect our daughter from sodding ‘Drama Group’.

My throat gives way. ‘Can’t you see my eye’s gone puffy?’ I plead pathetically.

I prod below it to emphasise the damage. Not that this does it justice. The injuries stretch beyond surface appearances. It’s also had a deep underlying traumatic effect, exacerbated by the fact the scrotum got away without me getting a look at him or the car.

‘It might be an idea to get on an Anger Management course, Andy.’

‘Yeah? I’ll see if there’s one running simultaneous to Katy’s drama seeing as you’ve got me kicking my heels for three hours every time I’m supposed to have her.’

‘Would you rather she didn’t pursue her dream?’

‘Don’t give me that! And if it is her dream I’m sure it can be accommodated outside of my access hours.’

‘But she’s made friends in that group.’

‘What? A girl who changes surnames every month and an eight year old skirt botherer?’

‘Do you want to tell her she won’t being seeing them again?’

Becky’s face breaks into a look of smug satisfaction. There is no comeback to that. Not that I can think of at the moment anyway so I lower my gaze to her tits, which are looking far perkier than I remember. Her nipples are poking provocatively through her tight green T-shirt and practically begging to be tweaked. Surely she can’t be getting off on this?

Course she can. She loves it.

She picks up on the tit staring and folds her arms across them.

‘Right,’ I say with nothing left to hold my interest, ‘I’ll see you in a fortnight.’

‘Yes, but don’t expect Katy to be ready until seven minutes past.’

The door closes on me with a heavy thud and I flick her the bird just in case she’s looking through the spy hole.