Myself and the Mother didn’t talk for three weeks after the auction. There was frost in the air and silence at the table. Like most family rows, the rift was never formally healed – there was no kiss and make up, the sight of a common enemy brought us to our senses.

Those of you who have followed this saga will know that the Mother attempted to buy my farm at Lisnapookybawna at auction and what a mess that turned out to be; the only winners were Tinky Ryan, the auctioneer, and a shleeveen of a solicitor from Kilkenny. We are about €5,000 worse off when we could have been a few hundred thousand to the good. She blamed me for trying to sell the farm out from under her and I blamed her for wasting our money.

I suppose we’re not the first pair to live under the one roof who fall out. We all know stories of couples, siblings and other family units who lived lives of monastic silence, not for any religious reason but just because they fell out over something serious or silly.

I’m reminded of Bill and Mary McEnry from Glennabuddybugga who didn’t talk for 40 years. When Bill died, Mary laid him out on two planks in the turf shed. The priest called and when he saw where poor Bill was stretched out, he said to Mary: “Ah Mary, wouldn’t you at least light a candle for the man.”

“Father,” says she, “where he’s goin’ he’ll have no need of light or heat.”

The silence in our house lasted three weeks and the longer it went on, the harder it got; sometimes the peace and quiet was pleasant but at other times it got awkward, especially when it came to having the bite to eat. The Mother continued to make the dinner but we didn’t sit down together to consume it.

A silent house is a quare thing. Getting around the kitchen without getting stuck together between the dishwasher and the fridge takes choreography and planning since getting jammed in this way could lead to an outbreak of peace – a catastrophe for anyone in an entrenched position. Likewise, an enthusiastically bubbling pot can cause more awkwardness if the two protagonists make a go for it at the same time.

The washing and ironing is another source of friction. From the day myself and the Mother stopped talking, my heap of laundry began to build up and was getting positively Himalayan until a note from herself appeared on top of the heap.

“Three choices” it read, “hire a maid, burn the clothes or follow the instructions below.”

She had written out a step-by-step guide to loading and turning on the washing machine. I have to admit that the upside to the falling out was a distinct enhancement of my skills in the laundry department.

Another problem arises when a neighbour calls in and engages the two silent warriors in conversation and they have to pretend things are as normal as brown bread when in fact nothing is further from the truth. Nell Regan, the Mother’s friend, came to visit one evening. I was in the kitchen finishing an egg while the Mother was sitting in front of the telly having a sandwich.

Nell decided to stand in the doorway between the two rooms and, try as she might to get a three-way conversation going, all she could manage were two different exchanges. RTÉ’s northern correspondent Tommy O’Gorman would probably describe Nell’s intervention as “engaging in bilateral discussions”.

There are many things that help cope with a silent house and one of them is the radio. Having the radio on is a godsend and the Mother turned up the volume as soon as I appeared at the top of the stairs each morning.

Unfortunately for us, Willy De Wig Ryan is the main ingredient in our morning radio diet and the hoor would bring a reaction from a statue. Listening to him is like eating a lemon – you have to make a face or grunt or hit the table or something to ease the pain. I knew by the Mother she was ready to explode at many of the things De Wig came out with and at times I nearly chewed my tongue off with frustration. De Wig eventually wore us down and melted our frost . His programme last Friday featured a discussion about Irish mothers and their sons and to illustrate the point, one of his guests referred to the many priests who had, what was called, a “mother’s vocation”.

“Oh,” says De Wig, “not only priests, but many politicians have the mother’s vocation – Councillor Maurice Hickey is a case in point.”

The Mother and myself looked at the radio together and shouted: “‘You bastard.”

There’s nothing like a common enemy to stir the family blood.