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

'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 a

'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 ma

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 i

'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 to try to work out what she's referring to. If I notice, say, that in her hand is a pile of 8x10 glossies of Alyson Ha

So, as I say, it's essential that I don't break and start volunteering explanations. Margret will push me as hard as she can in that direction, though, simply as a fishing exercise. We'll exchange words designed to say nothing — engage in a kind of obstructive bidding war, in which the crucial thing is to ensure that every bid is as valueless as the preceding one.

Margret: 'Well?'

Mil: 'What?'

Margret: 'Pffff… the kitchen.' [Easy to get drawn into something like that, but it's a fatal mistake. How many things have I done in the kitchen — some of which Margret MUST NEVER SUSPECT — could that refer to? It could be anything at all. Perhaps the kitchen is on fire because I've left something under the grill — if Margret found the kitchen on fire because I'd left something under the grill then I'm prepared to bet my legs that her reaction would not be to put the fire out or to call the emergency services, but rather to march into the room where I was and say, 'Well?' I can't blink now. If Margret says, 'the kitchen,' then there's only one thing to reply.]

Mil: 'The kitchen?'

Margret: 'YES.'

Mil: 'What?' [I might add a look of utter, guileless befuddlement here — you know, kind of: 'Hey, I want to help… I just don't know how to.' — if I think that doing so may infuriate her enough that she becomes careless and starts making mistakes. I have to make this decision on an individual basis each time, though. Feel if the moment is right, based on instinct and experience — it's an art, not a science.]