Senior Son came home for the holidays. He brought four big bags of dirty washing. And a goldfish.

Don't ask me. It's called Timo, I think. After a DJ in a Manchester club. Of course.

Timo looked terrified. As would you if you'd spent the afternoon slopping around in a bowl covered in cellophane in the passenger seat of my lad's car on the M62 in a rainstorm. Trouble is, there's not much you can do for a goldfish, is there? Can't give it a cuddle or a bit of chocolate to cheer it up. So I just topped its bowl up with some nice filtered water and put it in a quiet dark corner to recover.

Only then did I realise that the bright pink thing in the middle of its bowl was a fluorescent skull. The fish kept swimming through the eye sockets. I shut the door on it quickly...

As soon as Senior Son walked through the door, everything changed. While he's been away, we have settled into a peaceful routine, his brother, his father and I. Quiet. Civilised. Then the big one arrives and it all gets turned upside down.

Having had the television, video and the sofa to himself for most of the last few months, not to mention choice of menu and unlimited access to the phones, Smaller Son, I feared, might feel a bit put out by having to share again.

I had hardly put the first lot of washing in the machine ("I worked out when to do my last wash, so I'd have just enough clothes to last exactly till the end of term") when it started.

It began with an argument over television (Never have Sky if you have more than one child - far too many channels to argue over) and quickly progressed to a full scale wrestling match in the middle of the sitting room.

When you consider that the little one is six foot two inches and his brother could pass for the Honey Monster, you will realise there's no room for them to wrestle in the sitting room. The sofa cushions were off, the newspapers crunched up on the floor, an empty Coke glass was in danger. And as for my bright Italian jug filled with frankly fake poppies and daisies, it was rocking perilously near two pairs of size 11 feet.

They rolled around the floor, trying to get their hands round each other's necks, their legs flailing in the air.

My heart lurched for my little one, his peaceful routine wrecked, his little world turned upside down by the return of his brother to resume a lifetime's domination and wreck the happy home.

Almost literally.

I tried to intervene - tripping over one of the four bags of washing on the way. "Stop it you two!" I shouted. But they were shouting at each other so loudly that they couldn't hear my pathetic croak.

They were jammed up against an armchair now and the standard lamp was looking iffy. Senior Son had his brother trapped upside down with his arms in a lock around his neck.

I scrambled over the wreckage of the sofa, determined to help. But Smaller Son, still upside down and going a funny colour, was grinning.

"It's alright Mum," he said cheerfully from his head lock, "While he's been away, I've really missed the fighting." And with a triumphant grunt, managed to throw his brother off balance. So I moved the standard lamp and let them get on with it. Did someone mention Peace and Goodwill? Happy Christmas.

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