ISN'T IT

One rainy afternoon, when I was no more than five years old, I curled up on the stairs leading to my parents' third-floor bedroom. Afraid of my own breathing, I listened to, and speculated upon, their row.

I do not remember the precise words that were spat out, or even the cause of their joint anger. What I have no difficulty in recalling, however, is the tone of my parents' voices, the snide-y, sneer-y, jeer-y-ness of their words, and the way their vocal expressions conveyed a sort of hatred.

I prayed (to myself? to God? - I'm undecided)...

'Please don't let Mummy and Daddy hate each other. Please don't let them be Divorced'.

As a child, 'divorce' struck so much fear into my heart that it seemed almost worse than that other dreaded D-word. As an adult, divorce seems a preferable state of affairs in comparison to a joyless marriage.

So fifteen years on, I sit on the rug by the fire, absorbing Damien Rice or Ryan Adams whilst the endless sky just rains on and on. And I listen to those words all over again.

How can two people whose lives are so profoundly entwined utter those most hurtful and hateful of sentiments to each other?

It is my belief that it is the people to whom you are closest who are most capable of issuing that mortal wound.

Now that's what you call ironic.