Sunday morning

Recent model Merc pulls into the parking space outside my window. In between me and the car: six feet of pavement, railings, four feet of basement drop and stairway, my window and a net curtain, the table at which I am eating runny boiled eggs on bread rolls. Occupants of the car open their doors, then close them again without emerging. A man and a woman, he at the wheel and closest to the kerb. They are arguing.

It is a louder row than the usual listless bickering that characterises the interaction of so many couples out together and in public at the weekend. Or at least his voice is louder. Then there's a lull and I'm paying more attention to my breakfast and an interview with Jools Holland in which he extolls the virtues of keeping things bottled up.

Now they're out of the car, apparently about to leave for wherever it was they were going. I'd guess he's middle eastern, of the nearer shores rather than the Gulf, well built yet not the bloated prince type. She may be from another country abutting the Mediterrannean. She's well dressed, more likely to be his mistress or girlfriend than his wife. Aside from the intangible clues in her appearance, his argument seems too passionate to suggest a matrimonial dispute.

The discord resumes and they get back into the car. His gestures are more expressive now, he is practically throwing himself about in his seat. The exchange is being conducted in English, and his words "I could kill you right now!" are unmistakeable and lack any leavening trace of humour or figurative intent. Then he punches the inside of the windscreen, near to the top. That he manages to shatter it in that area is quite impressive - slanted, the glass is close to the driver so there's little room for building momentum and the surface is awkwardly slanted. Also, it's pretty tough glass. On the one hand, this would compromise the only act of intervention I had thought open to me if he started delivering on the "kill you right now" option, that of toddling out there and putting my fire extinguisher through the windscreen on his side as a sort of distraction. But on the other hand it's rather a relief to see him taking out on his motor, it suggests to me that his fury is likely to be diverted. And so long as he doesn't start lamping the lady, well, I can watch big expensive cars being trashed all day.

He jumps out, still shouting. Now the entire Sunday morning street knows that the girl in the car has taken the decision to leave him, but how could he have paid her more attention when he had a family to look after? So, no surprises in the scenario there. He punches the windscreen again, from the outside now, and she gets out, looking calm and sad. As she wanders off he gives the glass another clout, leaving a mark that looks pinkish in the powdered glass.

Holding his head he walks after her, out of sight. When they return he is hunched, and for a minute or so crouches at the open door of his car, her fingers touching his shoulder. Then they get back into the car and drive off. Now his blood is spattered about around the corner and several buildings down, but none outside my front door.

Christmas often brings out these tensions. Presumably Ramadan is just the same.