Eight in the morning. In the bathroom, applying green eyeliner (rightfully my sister's, but she's still in bed, and will never know), with the classic contorted face. I hear the foretelling crash of trouble from downstairs. A chair? Perhaps the whole table, knocked over by more than a just clumsy hand. A shout; to say voices are raised is always an understatement when They are involved.

...

The door jams as I open it. A ham sandwich is splattered almost cruelly onto the terrocotta tile. Mayonnaise and mangled bread stick to the door frame. My brother's chair lies on its back, and leading from the chair into the kitchen and beyond is the evidence of a temper ill controlled - pink shredded ham remenants, globlets of glistening mayonnaise.

...

It's after eight, we're all waiting. Waiting takes the form of shouting. The boundaries between shouting and waiting often become blurred. Waiting at the bus stop is not easy when trying to contol the incredible urge to scream. When riding out an argument, waiting helps more than shouting. No-one but me knows this.

...

Fifteen hours later, there's no trace of ham. The mayonnaise has been swept away (under the rug, with the rest of everythng that matters? If I lifted this rug, you would find a broken relationship and lost words. Many comforting touches have been disregarded here. I keep a lost and found box under the attic window.) A crumb of bread clings onto the doorframe, but that crumb may have existed for some days, maybe a week. It might not be this morning's crumb. I could believe this if I tried, but experience tells me tomorrow morning will be the same.

...

I look forward to the variation. Tomorrow it will be the table knocked over, and peanut butter splattered across the house. Watercress would be nice, thank you.