Apropos of nothing much at all, I was thinking the other evening how much I used to enjoy goading my former parents in-law to the point where one or both lost their temper alarmingly, often with an accompanying bout of going red in the face and an attack of stomach acid.
By far the gravest of these incidents occurred some time in 1988 either shortly before or just after the BBC screened Tumbledown, a drama about the Falklands conflict. The central character, an officer in the Scots Guards, was shot in the head by an Argentinian sniper, losing 43pc of his brain. The programme was based on the book he wrote about it and fictionalised his evacuation and treatment. I gather that he lives yet and, indeed, was interviewed when the 25th anniversary of the fighting came along.
So, the scene was not Mount Tumbledown but a Sunday afternoon teatable somewhere in northern England with, perhaps, chicken salad on the dinner plates, a bit of bread and butter, some shop-bought cake on the sideboard and tea in the pot. The conversation meanders along visiting all the old touchstones - Trots and pooftahs at the BBC, too many persons of colour, bring back hanging, The Observer should be closed down - burned down in fact - for being full of "bloody Left wingers". The question of the Falklands and the controversy over the drama comes up and I posit that it is good that these things get an airing and that the shortcomings in the treatment of Forces personnel are highlighted. Au contraire, says Hilda, ma-in-law, and off we go, round and round, backwards and forwards, arguing the toss. I stick to my ground, she jumps rails the whole time, gesticulating and bringing in unassociated issues so that there no logical sequence to any of it. She becomes more and more flushed.
The point is reached where a valve shatters, a reservoir bursts, a switch is flicked and she loses it completely and starts shouting that bloody little soldiers shouldn't moan and run around - hobble around in this case - telling tales and that the BBC should be taken off the air and everyone connected to the programme tried for treachery and made to say sorry.
At which point silence descends, execpt for the scraping of knives and forks on mix-and-match crockery and the chewing of the remains of the chicken salad.
Oh dear. When I think of it now I feel dreadfully ashamed.
