Oh dear. Teenager is in the bathroom tearing her hair out. Well, if not her actual hair, then at least the contents of her hair, the six-legged crawling verminous contents of her thick luxurious wavy hair. And it may just be that the hair is winning.
I nearly offer to help, but I am warned away by those dark unguarded looks. Her eyes seem to say: “It’s all your fault.”
And the accusations follow: “If you hadn’t written a book about them….”
I don’t seem able to follow this up with the question on my lips: “If I hadn’t, then … what?”
Whatever is the opposite of delicious irony, this is it.