My gravitas is way out at sea, frankly: and I'm left standing there trying to impose my dignity on an angry motorist while looking like the opening act at a gay disco.

Fortunately, however, there's Small Girl. One's children may be thought of as a person's only chance at immortality and, vicarious and tiny as it is, such a thing still comes at a terrible price. Man is pointing at scratches on his car, which are within a foot or so of the impact point, but quite clearly date back to the twentieth century. He's trying his luck, basically. 'Erm… I think those scratches were probably there already,' says Margret. Man sucks in air between his teeth. He's solemn and resolute. 'Oh,' he sighs heavily, 'I don't think so.'

At which point Small Girl tugs on his trousers and chirps up helpfully, 'Oh, yes they were, Daddy! Those have been there for ages!' He glares at her, trying — without uttering a word — to speak directly into her brain using the mystic power of parental horror. She smiles back sweetly. I see that, behind his eyes, he collapses.

The point of all this is that, at no time, do I so much as tut at Margret for driving into the side of one of only ten cars presently in Ireland. I inwardly note that the cost of the holiday has probably just doubled, but there's nothing to be done about that so there's no sense dwelling on it.

A couple of days later Margret provokes an episode that, I believe, ran something like this:

Margret: 'Ah, Second Born, you appear to be a very young and notoriously excitable child and, additionally, you are standing above a broad expanse of utterly unforgiving igneous rock… Here — let me give you your father's brand new digital camera to play with.'

I wasn't there when this took place, as Margret had ordered me to clean the shower. However, she came sheepishly into the room, and I almost instantly knew what had happened. 'Sheepish' is a look so foreign to Margret that the mere sight of it announced a truly catastrophic event had taken place: I hoped for a second that she'd accidentally poisoned to death six or seven of my friends, but deep down I knew I was clutching at straws and that really what had happened was that my brand new digital camera had been broken. She handed it to me and I held it tenderly in my hands. Its lens was wrenched off to one side at an ugly angle — like a broken neck. Like the broken neck of some delicate, beautiful bird that had shiny silver plumage, a smooth body containing both internal and SD card memory and a 4x optical zoom beak, or something.

The point of all this is that, at no time, did I so much as tut at Margret for devising and, using Second Born as a patsy, executing a plan that resulted in the murder of a digital camera that was yet scarcely a week old. I inwardly noted that the cost of the holiday had taken another leap towards my having to run heroin out of Singapore to pay for it, but there was nothing to be done about that so there was no sense dwelling on it.

Seconds — and I mean seconds — later, Margret steps into the bathroom and then almost immediately steps out again grasping a fury to her face. 'I thought you were cleaning the shower?' she fumes.

'I have cleaned it.'

'No you haven't.'

'Yes, I have.'

She disappears inside for a second and reemerges clutching a small amount of hair between her fingers — partly in anger, partly in triumph: like holding up for display the scalp of a conquered enemy. 'And what's this then?' she roars, shaking the scalp.

'I didn't see that.' (Well, I didn't. Anyone can miss a few hairs in the shower, for God's sake — especially if they really, really don't want to be cleaning the shower in the first place.)

'You…' Margret begins to lay into me, but then catches herself. She looks at the tiny scalp. I see her remember that I didn't make any kind of an issue at all about her crashing into a big, red stationary car that was practically the only other motor vehicle in an area reaching from the shores of Wales to the east coast of America. I see her remember that I didn't express anything except fatalistic acceptance just moments ago when she announced how she'd been instrumental in destroying my pristine digital camera when the boundless promise of its whole life lay ahead of it. She looks at the tiny scalp once more.

'Considering things, I really shouldn't be going on about this, should I?' she says, quietly.

I click my teeth and shrug in reply.

She sighs reflectively. And then really lays into me for ages and ages and ages about leaving the hair in the shower. For, you see, the Doctrine of Proportionality is not something Margret recognises. The only two levels she has any time for are 'Sitting having a nice cup of coffee' and 'slamming a fist down on the nuclear button'. A tea towel left damp on a work surface is not a tea towel left damp on a work surface, but a crucial representative of a whole range of issues and concerns — some of which will possibly include England, something I said three years ago and my mother. I admire someone always committed to giving 100% like that; I respect that level of unjudgmental intensity. So, if at any point in the future a hooded figure is seen tipping Margret's drugged body over the side of a ferry, then that person will certainly not be me.

94

Before I leave our holiday completely behind, let me just mention one other thing. We set off to drive down to Swansea to get the ferry to Ireland in a car stuffed by Margret with pretty much every article of clothing our family owns. This is Margret's way: if I take the kids out to the park, I will take the kids; if Margret takes them, she will also take along four extra pairs of shoes, 'just in case'. (And while, during my trip, they will be careful, during hers they will fall knee-deep into a fetid duck pond six times.) Anyway, in the back seat, wedged in between all the garments, are First Born and Second Born. First Born is hunched over his Game Boy, his thumbs twitching, Second Born is peering excitedly out of the window. Margret reverses off our drive, goes to the end of the road, and turns left. Second Born, having held it in long enough to attain a new personal best, now says, 'Are we there yet?'

'No,' replies Margret. 'We have to drive for two and a half hours.'

'Two and a half hours?' Peter gasps, incredulous. 'What are we driving two and half hours for?'

'Knowing Mom,' First Born says, without looking up from his Game Boy, 'it'll be to visit a garden centre.'

Sometimes, ladies and gentlemen, there is simply no need for blood tests to know without any doubt whatsoever who a child's father is.

95

Right, I've returned from Sweden and, quite apart from everything else I have to do, I naturally have nearly a thousand emails to deal with — having indolently not dealt with any new ones that arrived while I was running around Stockholm and Gothenburg for four days. (My Swedish publishers were charming beyond words, incidentally, so I'd like you all to buy the Swedish version of TMGAIHAA — on view here. Even if, in fact, you don't speak Swedish.) The email backlog is my fault, clearly, but I do have to try to make some impression on it before I leave again. Not for Stockholm this time, but, even more excitingly, for Poole. I'll update you Mailing Listers with extra Swedish tales when I get the chance, obviously, but let me just quickly pop by to mention this:

On the day that I had to leave for Sweden, Margret drove me to the city centre so that I could catch my train. She pulled up outside the station, and I jumped out and snatched my bags off the back seat.