Is it just ME?

Or is it wonderful others argue like crazy, too?

ACCORDING to a recent survey, the average family has around 260 rows a year.

Hurrah! Finally, I have confirmation I’m not Britain’s Worst Mother because I bicker with my offspring. My relationship with him indoors is not that of harridan (me) and saint (him) because we quarrel, but absolutely normal.

With your nearest and dearest you can test the limits of human interaction in a way you can’t in the big wide world. I mean, try telling your boss they are a stupid pea head, and it’s highly unlikely they’ll respond with: ‘Shut up, monkey breath.’

But your sister — yes, you can get away with that, and often, worse, with your own faults served back with stinging accuracy.

Great offence is taken, along with the secret realisation that, well, you might be a bit of a slattern in the kitchen (note to self, occasionally use a plate). Eventually, you make up, albeit grudgingly, because no matter what is said, there is trust between you.

The family is a safe place to be annoyed. And, as any woman knows, without the safety valve of the occasional shout, you would probably kill your partner, and prison is a less forgiving place to mouth off about a roommate’s failure to use the loo brush.

All the hidden domestic and emotional labour we carry sometimes has to be dumped on our thankless kids and shiftless men. Naturally, there’s retaliation. Nobody’s as perfect as our Instagrammed pictures and ‘so blessed’ Facebook posts would have you believe. Your bloke yelling at you does not hashtag well.

That said, I’m still not talking to my daughter — that’s row 258 and counting . . .

Without the safety valve of the occasional shout, you would probably kill your partner