Putting my feet up

On the balcony - a quiet lunch, after 24 hours of family red alert.
I am not sure how other families cope with crises - normally you don't know because they do it quietly, doggedly, excluding the general public. In my family, the whole world knows. We scream, shout, throw things, we have blogs and show pictures on flickr. When we get on well, it's the best family in the world - laughter, food, drink, kisses, sunshine, birdsong, fotos, phone calls and post cards. When we quarrel, everything turns very black, very loud, and finally someone puts the phone down. It's in our genes, with my father the archetypal good-looking bad lot who resolved crises by helplessly (we give him the benefit of the doubt) but efficiently resorting to violence - until he was bravely thrown out of the family. Divorce was not a solution many women dared take in the fifties.
My childhood was dotted with black rages, my adulthood with friends telling me "that's enough now". And indeed, I feel it's way enough . All I want from my family now is detached, slightly froid mutual respect. I am not holding my breath, though.


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