I am never speaking to you ever again
Very few of us have not spat out those venomous words at one time or another
My first recollection of deciding that I would never speak to my brother again is from when I was about three years old. It was in the dead of winter in Hammarsdale, which everyone knows is colder than a lamb slaughterer's heart.
So, we were huddled in front of the family Defy coal stove in the kitchen, waiting for the bean curry and dumplings to be ready. My then four-year-old elder, Mazwi, decided to conduct a human physiology experiment: he took the poker, held it over the naked coals and placed it on my inner thigh until white flesh was exposed. After what seemed like three minutes of filling my lungs with air, I emitted a yell that I am convinced was audible on the other side of the N3 freeway...