Accommodationally challenged after a disastrous foreign trip in 2007, CJ Stone was forced to take refuge with his parents. It was the first time he’d lived with them since his teens, and he was surprised to find himself in a war zone. Following are CJ’s bulletins from the front line in the eternal war of age and sex.

Most of the time it’s more a state of stubborn siege rather than all-out war. Dad has his routines, Mum has hers, and as long as they don’t contradict each other or get in each other’s way there’s no problem. An uneasy peace reigns throughout the territories. She might lob an explosive comment like a hand grenade at his defences every so often, but this is more for her own amusement than for any strategic purpose. She does it because she can’t think of anything else to do.

But – occasionally - something comes up which has them at it again: in a full-scale bloody battle, no prisoners, all-out war.

The last time I saw this was when my sister was preparing to go on holiday and they’d agreed to look after the dog.

Mum wanted the carpet cleaned. It’s a cream carpet and, she’s right, there were shadowy stains and scuff marks creeping about where people had, very inconsiderately, put their feet down: using it like a carpet of all things. It’s something they do about once a year. They hire a carpet cleaner and Dad pushes it around and about, up and down the living room and into the hall, shoving back the furniture to do so. It’s a great big effort, I know - it’s a hefty piece of machinery - and Dad is dreading the work. I can’t help as I’m going away.

Dad said, “Let’s wait till after we’ve had the dog.”

“No Stan,” she said. “I can’t wait till then. The carpet is in a horrible state. Look at it. It’s in a mess. I want it cleaned now.”

“Be reasonable love,” he said, before launching into a long, complex and entirely logical explanation of why it made more sense to wait a week or two. He needn’t have bothered.

It was that “be reasonable” that did it.

“’Be reasonable,’” she repeats, scathingly, mocking his tone, while he’s in the kitchen clattering about in the dishwasher. “’Be reasonable.’ I don’t like it when I’m told to be reasonable.”

Well I can see my Dad’s point-of-view. What if it’s raining that week? The dog will be running in and out with muddy paws all over their nice clean carpet. They only have to delay it for a while. And Mum sounds like a petulant teenager with her “I want it NOW” attitude.

But she’s right about one thing. It has nothing to do with reason. Since when did reason come into it? “To love, honour and be reasonable.” The reason reason is not in the marriage vows is that it’s a contradiction in terms. Not like chalk and cheese. Chalk and cheese at least share the same planet. Reason and marriage, on the other hand, are two entirely separate entities, from two completely different universes.

A bit like men and women really.

“I’ll show him,” Mum was saying quietly, her legs crossed, her arms folded, tapping her foot with rhythmic agitation, keeping her words to herself and not letting him hear. “If he can’t do his job, then I won’t do mine.”

Uh-oh. I knew that look. It was time to duck out of there.

It only took a day or two. As soon as I stepped through the front door two days later I could see it. There were crumbs and bits of fluff all over the carpet in the hall, and a scattering of toys where the granddaughter had been playing. Her toy push-chair and her doll were heaped in the middle of the floor. The door mat was all scuffed up and in the wrong position. I stepped over the rubble and into the living room and it was even worse. Leftover crockery on the coffee table. Bits and pieces lying all over the place. Discarded cushions. Cake crumbs. Biscuits crumbs. Scuff marks. And two carved wooden ornaments which normally sit neatly either side of the grate lying abandoned in the middle of the floor.

I picked one of them up and put it back before sitting down.

Mum came in.

“What have you done with the ornament?” she said, noticing straight away.

“I put it back.”

“Well you can just move it back to where you found it,” she said. “I’m on strike.”

“I thought so,” I said. “I could see it when came through the front door. Does Dad know?”

“No. He hasn’t noticed yet. But he will,” she said menacingly. “I will not be told to be reasonable. He’ll see how reasonable I can be,” she added with an entirely unreasonable-sounding cackle.

After that she wouldn’t let me touch a thing and it was a few more days of having to pick my way through the debris. The washing up got done, as usual, but that’s because the washing up is his job anyway. He always does the washing up. As for the rest, it just got worse and worse.

Even the washing wasn’t done. There were piles of clothes creeping out of the clothes basket like some alien disease come to smother us all.

Dad just carried on regardless. Several days had gone by and he still hadn’t said anything.

I went away on my business trip.

About three days after this Mum rang me up.

“The strike’s over,” she said.

“Oh good. What did Dad say?”

“Nothing. He never noticed.”

I laughed.

“So what happened then?”

“I couldn’t stand it any more. So I said to him, ‘I’ve been on strike.’ ‘Have you?’ he said. He drives me up the wall he does. But I said, ‘I want that carpet cleaned or else,’ and he agreed. So that’s it. I’m getting the carpet cleaned tomorrow. You can come home after that.”

So that was that. I got home and everything was back to normal. The carpet was clean, the washing had all been done and Mum and Dad had returned to their state of customary – if freshly laundered - siege.

As for the battle, I think we’ll have to call it a draw. Yes, Mum got the carpet cleaned. But she was on strike for a week, and he didn’t even notice.

At least he pretended he didn’t.