When I first met my wife, Mary, I spent much of my time refereeing a sparring match - a sparring match of words. There were several times when I narrowly managed to prevent an actual physical brawl.
I've never met anyone before who could, not only hold their own with my caustic flat mate, but who was able to surpass him in vitriol. I believe, that even then he had a sneaky admiration for her ability to best him and she sometimes gave him a right verbal beating.
It was a rainy weekend when I finally broke.
Sherlock was moaning. "I'm bored!"
"Either your mummy didn't hit you enough or your nanny did too much," she said without budging.
"Don't try to be clever-" he bellyached.
"I don't - if you knew anything about human nature Sherlock, you'd recognise derision when you heard it," she answered back.
"John, tell that fishwife to shut her trap, she doesn't understand me!" Sherlock bemoaned.
"When husbands complain that their wives don't understand them, they usually mean the exact opposite, that they understand them only too well," I said sagely. "You're like an old married couple! Do you two ever stop fighting?" I barked.
The competitors were relentless and had unending energy and reserves of sarcasm and ridicule. I, however, was in desperate need of a break.