Dialogue: When in doubt, blame your past - it works every time

By DON DONOVAN

It was one of those little spats that blow up from nowhere, like one of those willy-willies in the Aussie desert. You never quite pin down how it started but if you're not careful its outcome can be quite devastating.

It was a misunderstanding, of course.

I said one thing and she took it to mean something else (Women are from Venus, Men are from Under a Stone, it seems).

Before you could say "Peace!" she'd pinned me to the kitchen wall with one of those stony glares women are so adept at, told me I was all sorts of different pond life, and that she never wanted to talk to me again.

I hasten to say that the marriage has lasted for what feels like a few score light years with lots of occasions of "I'll nevers" and "You always", so I knew that her non-bargaining position was unlikely to last. Or so I thought.

(I can also remember when we and the Germans and Japanese were intent on eliminating each other for ever. The healing from that was a long time coming and at times very painful.)

While wishing we had a tape recorder going all the time like the one they hang themselves with in the Oval Office of the White House, I tried to go through it all again with what I'd said, what I'd meant, and how she'd got the wrong end of the stick.

"It's all very well for you to want to start backing off now," she thundered, "But you've really blown it this time.

"The damage is done. I don't want to see you or speak to you again - ever."

And with that, she disappeared into her "study", slamming the door with the sort of finality you associate with fast descending guillotine blades.

I listened outside for some time. It was very silent in there.

I suppose she was playing with her laptop or doing some ironing - maybe ironing her laptop, I never did find out.

After a while I made what I thought was a conciliatory approach. "Can I get you anything," I offered, "Tea? Coffee, Milo?"

Silence.

"Look, this is silly. Tell you what, I'll apologise. I am sorry. S-O-R-R-Y.

"There, I've apologised. I was entirely in the wrong. It's my fault. God, I feel awful. Please forgive me."

Silence.

"Please ... "

But a barely audible reply came through the door.

"Go away. I'm finished with you ... "

Wow. This was serious.

I decided to write a note. Like diplomats do when they want to ease back from a full-scale nuclear war.

"Dear Mrs Donovan,

"I am sorry I was nasty to you. I am a horrid person. I promise I will be good in future, if I can."

I pushed it half under the study door wriggling it about a bit so that she'd be aware of it even if she was concentrating on her Florentine embroidery or whatever it is she does in there.

It wasn't immediately accepted so I took myself off to the sitting room and poured myself a glass of pinot noir and awaited developments.

Twenty minutes later the slip of paper had gone.

"Did you get my note?" I called.

"It's no good," she replied impatiently. "You don't mean it. Especially that last bit."

"The last bit?"

"The 'if I can'. It's almost as if it wasn't your fault."

This was bad. It had never taken so long before.

Then I had a brainwave. I wrote another note.

"Dear Mrs Donovan,

"I've been thinking: I expect I'm so awful because I had a terrible upbringing.

"I've not told you this before because I didn't want to upset you. You see, when I was a wee little boy my parents kept me in a dark cellar for years and only gave me uncooked tripe to eat and my father used to beat me up with his big leather belt with all the Army badges on it ... "

Well, to cut a long story short, it worked like a charm.

Quite soon after the note disappeared from under the door she was out, tears streaming down her cheeks, groping for my head which she pulled to her warm, motherly bosom.

Sobbing, she stroked my thinning hair. "You poor boy," she shuddered, "you never told me. What a dreadful childhood you must have had.

"No wonder you're so impossible at times ... '

(I let that pass; didn't want to start another incident).

"I'll forgive you, this time."

Phew. Got away with it. What a defence! Talk about potent. I'll use it over and over again in future. Not just with Mrs D, but for parking and speeding fines, defamations, even muggings and arson if I ever get into them.

"This pinot noir's good," she said, all sweetness and light at last.

"Have another glass. You deserve it, and society owes you after all you've been through."