Mil: 'I have to get other things too.'

Margret: 'What things?'

Mil: 'What the bloody hell does it matter? Why can't I go to town if I want to, for God's sake?'

Margret: 'Why are you being secretive? What are you up to?'

Mil: 'I'm not up to anything.'

Margret: 'Yes you are.'

Mil: 'Like what?'

Margret: 'I don't know.'

Mil: 'Because there isn't anything.'

Margret: 'Yes there is — I can tell.'

Mil: 'There isn't.'

Margret: 'You bloody liar.'

Mil: 'You bloody mad woman.'

Margret: 'Tell me.'

Mil: 'Stop talking now.'

Margret: 'Tell me.'

Mil: 'I…'

Margret: 'Tell me.'

I think we've both risen to our feet by this point (it allows for better voice projection).

Mil: 'OK! OK! You want to know why I need to go up town, you relentless harridan?!'

Margret: ''Yes! You lying swine!'

Mil: 'So I can get your Valentine's Day card! So I can get your bloody Valentine's Day card and post it to here — so it'll arrive as a nice surprise through the post!'

A tiny flicker. It's the merest stutter of hesitation, though, then she's back on track before the beat is really lost.

Margret: 'You don't need to get me a bloody Valentine's Day card!'

(I can't imagine what makes her think she's going to get away with this move — she must be getting old.)

Mil: 'Too bad! Because I'm getting you a Valentine's Day card! And I'm posting it to you! Tomorrow! When I go to town! '

Margret: 'THERE'S NO BLOODY NEED!'

Mil: 'WELL IT'S GOING TO BLOODY HAPPEN — GET USED TO IT!'

And, indeed, I do go to town, buy her a card, and post it. Inside I write, 'Surprise!' She gets it on Valentine's Day and says, 'Thank you,' to me, through gritted teeth. (She gets me one too, by the way — it reads, "I'm not interested in a nice, normal relationship… I like ours better.")

Odysseus and Penelope? Pah — lightweights.

82

So, the thing was, I'd cut this picture of PJ Harvey out of a magazine (yes, the 'Lick My Legs' one, of course the 'Lick My Legs' one) and I was framing it to put on my wall here. 'Who's that?' asked First Born.

'That,' I replied, 'is PJ Harvey.'

'Who's PJ Harvey?' he said. (Bless.)

'She's a singer and a songwriter,' I explained. Adding, as I'm sure most people would, 'I used to go out with her. You know — years before Mama and I met.'

Now, you'll never guess what happened next. Incredibly, Margret goes through the roof. No, I'm not kidding — she goes through the roof and starts ranting that I shouldn't say I used to go out with PJ Harvey. Can you believe that? I mean, for one thing, I don't tell her that she can't watch gardening shows on the TV or go swimming or whatever, so how come I can't tell people that I used to go out with PJ Harvey? There has to be give and take in a relationship, right? The main issue, though, is why on earth she should object in the first place. Surely, if anyone is well placed to take issue with my going around saying that I used to go out with PJ Harvey, then who is that person? Damn right. It's PJ Harvey. And her record company, maybe. Also, possibly her legal representatives have good grounds to intervene, perhaps in a manner that leads, ultimately, to some kind of court order against me. So, yes, all those people seem to be perfectly justified in stepping in — but my girlfriend? God — it's getting so I can't do anything.

83

Now, this is slightly scary and unsettling. I know I'm inclined to say that quite a lot, but what am I supposed to do about it? This is slightly scary and unsettling. You're going to get to the end of this and say, 'Ooo — that's slightly scary and unsettling, Mil,' that's just the simple fact of the matter. OK?

The other evening we had some friends round. We were all sitting in the living room and I was recounting something Margret had done a couple of days previously. Unfortunately, I can't remember what this thing was now, but I do recall it had happened in the car. So, given Margret and I stepping into a car together immediately invalidates our insurance (a Zen branch of homologous algebra states: Mil + Margret + Car = Small Child + Hammer + Land Mine), it could have been pretty much anything up to and including some kind of western movie-style showdown where — instead of being atop a train — Margret and I scrambled for control of a Colt .45 on the roof of our Vauxhall Corsa, as it careered, driverless, down the A5. As I say, I can't remember. Anyway, whatever it was, it was certainly (a) utterly outrageous and (b) utterly down to Margret. This is borne out by the look of numb, stunned disbelief that trembled on our friends' faces when I'd finished telling them the story. One of them turned to Margret and, incredulous, gasped, 'Did you really do that?'

'Yeah,' Margret laughed back, with a shy, 'you know how it is' shrug. Then she became pensive and her nose twisted a little in thought. 'But,' she continued, half to herself, 'I don't know if I'd have done it in real life.'

"In real life"?

What?

WHAT?

You're going 'Ooo — that's slightly scary and unsettling, Mil' now, aren't you?

84

A question I get asked a lot is… Um, actually, a question I get asked a lot is one I get asked by those Litigations R Us-style firms — the ones that encourage you to sue everyone you've ever met so they can have a share of the settlement. Every single time I walk through town one of their salespeople will leap out in front of me:

'Hello. I'm trawling for business on behalf of a parasitic company that happily feeds the special and delightful sense of greedy, self-centred victimhood that so elevates contemporary society. You can be confident of my noble legal stature because — look — I'm wearing a corporate waterproof jacket.'

Hold on, let me start that again. I think I may have edged, just slightly, into editorializing.

OK. Fact: I cannot walk through town without one these people heading me off. Their eyes shine the moment I stumble into their line of sight — they'll push other shoppers out of the way just to get at me. What does that say? What kind of lift to your self-confidence does that provide, eh?

Salesgit: 'Excuse me. Have you had an accident within the last three years?'

Me: 'No. I always look like this.'

I mean, it's basically someone coming up to you and saying, 'Hi — you appear to be the result of some terrible catastrophe,' isn't it?

Maybe I should reassess my haircut or something.

Anyway, as I was saying before you set me off on that tangent, a question I get asked a lot is 'What's the most frequent argument you have?' I can't imagine why people ask me things like this. That is, I can't imagine why people ask me this — why don't they ask other people? If you want to ask about arguments, then ask an argument expert. I can't claim to be an expert, because I lack the vital aspect of depth — I can't provide a balanced answer, because I've simply no experience of what it's like to be in the wrong. I'd like to have that experience, obviously. In some ways I even feel vaguely cheated by my consistent rightness but, well, we have to play the hand we're dealt, right?

However, though I can't really say what the most frequent argument is, I can have a stab at the definitive one. This argument illustrates a fundamental theme — a core issue. Because of that, it can be used in all kinds of situations. The details are unimportant; the following example may be 'about' domestic chores, or shopping arrangements, or 'sorting out of children', or any number of things. Below those superficial, ephemeral points is the true heart of the matter. The argument goes: