Things my girlfriend and I have argued about (online version)

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.

'Bring me back something,' she called through the open window of the car.

'Like what?' I replied.

'Something typically Swedish.'

'What on earth… I mean, Sweden's famous for three things: herrings, suicide and pornography. What do you expect me to buy for you, exactly?'

'Well, not the pornography…' She waved a hand dismissively. 'I prefer to watch that here, on my own, at the theatre.' With which, let us say, 'Somewhat Intriguing' statement, she slipped the car into gear and drove away. Leaving me standing there outside the railway station; with a bag in each hand and my head full of considerably more questions than answers.

Dear God, but the woman knows how to make an exit.

96

What's the most terrible sound in the world? The sound that crumples your soul, jerks fishhooks in your nerves and makes you want to curl up in some dark, distant corner with a coat pulled over your head. The banshee- like squeal of your tyres as you fight with an unresponsive wheel on the blur of a mountain road? The sudden creak of an uninvited foot pressing heavy with psychopathic stealth on the midnight stairs outside your thin bedroom door? The first warning 'thum-thum-th-th-thm-thum' of the title music announcing that the Fresh Prince of Bel Air is about to start? All bowel-looseningly horrible, that's for sure, but, for me, none can compare with this: my name.

'Ahhh, yes…' you say, nodding wisely and tapping your pipe out on the heel of your shoe. 'I see. On account of your having such a stupid name.'

An understandable mistake, but that's not what I mean, in fact. I'm actually referring to the sound of my name, being called from another part of the house, by Margret's voice.

It can happen shortly after she's returned home from somewhere. It can happen abruptly; bringing to a halt some activity – tidying, rearranging, etc. – she's been engaged in. It can happen completely out of the blue; taking me down without warning, like a sniper's bullet. It will always have the same distinctive, chilling timbre, though.

'Oh – Miiiiiiil…'

Like Pandora's box, all the evils of the world are contained within that 'Mil'. There's anger, disappointment, frustration, accusation, wounded incredulity, choler and sadness; it declares something bad discovered, and promises something terrible to come. It's the sound of anguish mixed with the k-chhk of a round being pumped into the breach of an assault shotgun.

And the worst thing about it is the not knowing. 'Oh – Miiiiiiil…' snaking into the room where I'm sitting carries with it a realisation both dreadful and blind. Margret has happened across something I've done. Or not done. Or done in a manner other than the one she'd pictured in the fantastic, surreal cinema of her mind. What can it be? Obviously, thousands of possibilities instantly campaign for my attention. It's fearful. Let me at least know my offence so I can prepare a reasonably plausible explanation. Dear God, don't leave me trying to guess which one of all the possible things I've done you might just now have stumbled upon – the sheer cruelty of that is unspeakable. But no. The simultaneous poverty and excess of 'Oh – Miiiiiiil…' is all I'm given.

I sit there. Waiting. In my ears the air crackles – as though it were grease-proof paper being crushed in a clenching fist. Above its brittle music, I hear Margret approaching. She'll be in the room at any moment – she's swift seconds away, a single heartbeat, half a breath. Should I affect not to have heard her? Be bowed over some important thing on my lap that required my mind be an opaque, impenetrable elsewhere? Should I look defiant? Or imperious – above any trivial, mundane matters. Or maybe I could make it out of the window? It's only about fifteen feet. Yes! A good leap and I can halve the drop by landing on the roof of the car. Skid off it and be away down the street. I have my bank card. It's only a few miles to the station. By nightfall I can be in Scotland – I'll shave my head and grow a beard – adopt a Dutch accent – 'I am Jan. You have room, pleesh?' – get a job on a farm – live a simple – oh crap, there's Margret!

She stands there, looking at me. I'm cornered. All I can do now is hug a posture of innocent confusion. If Margret's fuming, then countering it with a posture of innocent – ideally slightly hurt – confusion is sure to work. It just hasn't worked yet. And, as I've only been trying it for about sixteen years so far, I've hardly given it a proper chance, right?

'What?' I ask. Looking around, back over my shoulder, etc. – to convey that I'm so guiltless and bemused I genuinely believe that she might have come in the room to be angry with someone else.

Margret lets the atmosphere hang there, twisting, for a few excruciating seconds before replying with one of two things: either 'Well?' or 'I don't believe it.'

It's the most dangerous moment of all. I have to hold my nerve. If I start apologising for something, you can almost guarantee that it won't be the correct thing, and I'll then have multiplied my problems. It's foolish even