Family conflicts are the spice of life, according to some people. I know that conflict within my own family structure causes me no end of pain and aggravation and I would prefer to do without it, but we are assured that some thrive on the emotional buzz.

Of course it all depends on one’s own personal nature and whether one feels stimulated by the sound of the teenage members of one’s family tearing each limb from limb over a dispute with the television remote control.

My best friend rarely allows disaster to rattle her. She serenely presides over a dining table scarred by past battles which have taken place between her three children and does not seem in the least perturbed by the disasters that rock normal households, sending tempers spiralling and doors slamming all over the house.

Sometimes she feels inclined to discreetly retire to the bathroom and close the door on her children’s intrusions into her peace and quiet. However, the last time she did that, the waste bin beside the toilet suddenly exploded and spattered red hair dye all over her spotless bathroom. Her eldest had been experimenting with her image and trashed the no longer need but still highly combustive bottle in the bathroom bin. Their usually pristine bathroom resembled the scene of an autopsy.

Patience in the face of great conflict must be an art. Much as I may try to emulate my friend’s docile acceptance of family drama, my volatile emotions get the better of me and I end up having to lie down in a darkened room for a few hours to recover, especially if the conflict involves more than one member of the family. The dog always sides with me (this might be something to do with my role as the Food Machine) and retires along with me, refusing to shake paws with anyone until peace is restored.

For some time now I have harboured a suspicion that teenagers are possessed with evil spirits which haunt their bodies and minds until they are twenty; either that or they have all been abducted by aliens and returned to Earth with instructions to break stuff, trash their rooms, hang out with deadbeats and never remember to close a door behind them.

Only a couple of days ago I sat by the window watching my daughter and a collection of her friends, boys and girls, head down the driveway, through the front gate and into the road, looking like the local branch of Hells Angels, coloured hair sticking out in every direction and metalwork hanging off every appendage. A passing elderly lady sidestepped into the road to avoid them as they made a scary sight.

Some way down the road, though, they all joined hands and began giggling at some shared amusement, and you then begin to realise that inside, these are the same kids you read bedtime stories to less than ten years ago. Appearances can sometimes be deceiving in the case of teenagers, and you have to try to look past the framework.