BACK WHEN MY eldest was a tiny human, I spent hours trawling through a parenting website.

I was even a member. Had my own username and everything. I dipped in and out of the section that was dedicated to the year of my baby’s birth.

Very helpful at times and teeming over with detailed accounts about how everyone else’s baby was meeting their milestones. But all very much par for the course.

I spent more time on the pages where rapid-fire banter and clever commentary hammered home how individual and first-class the Irish sense of humour is. But the discussions that drew me in like a helpless moth to a flame were the ones that bled out in the family relationships category.

I inhaled the carnage and returned several times a day to get my fix. The ick. The rage. The awful sadness. The drama! A bit like if Dallas and Succession had a baby.

You see, I love a problem. Not one of my own, to be clear. One that belongs to someone else.

It’s a funny one because in real life, I am allergic to theatrics. Confrontation can make me feel very unsafe; my thoughts scatter, and my nervous system goes haywire. But when it’s on paper and doesn’t directly involve me, well, hook me up to all of it. Neighbour using your green bin to dispose of their rubbish? Office workers parking in front of your home?........

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