"Where's that cunt of a woman you left your family for..?"

It isn't the nicest, cleverest or most diplomatic thing to say to my father, especially as I had promised myself not to spoil the day for everyone, but whenever I see his condescending judgemental face I just want to punch him.

We both redden slightly. "She's been dead for twelve years, Christopher," he says with a naked, aching sadness that pricks the backs of my eyeballs. But he'll forgive me, because he is just embarrassed enough not to try to justify his actions all those years ago.

After a shocked silence, my sister, Sharon laughs nervously. "You two," she says, as if we're playfully mocking each other's petty foibles. I take her cue and grin as I do to my brother when we are involved in the minor squabbles that involved daily violence when we were kids.

"Well, cheers anyway," I say clinking his beer bottle with mine.

Sharon insists on these family get togethers twice a year or so. I never talk to any of them otherwise. And when my sister does call me to put the date in my diary, I always stare at the name on my phone's caller ID for a few seconds, wondering who the hell Sharon is.

Cheryl can't get her head around this, as she loves her family more than anything, quite possibly more than me, and yet I have stolen her away from them, imprisoning her in a London flat with a slug problem. Ealing stopped being cool for her after four and a half months. Even though we have started drinking Polish beer to fit in with the locals, neither of us feel part of any community.

My mother is the only member of my blood relatives I see with any regularity, and that is because she lives in Shepherds Bush. She's alright, my Mum. I like her in small doses.

We waste an hour away and then my sister serves up dinner. I watch my brother Brian eating and feel slightly sick. He puts too much on his fork and scrapes the food across his cheek with every mouthful. He goes through an absurd number of red napkins and they pile up next to him as reminders of something more significant. While he eats he looks at nothing but his food, staring in silence and pushing his wire frame glasses up his nose with the knuckles of his knife hand. He has been beaten into submission, first by my father and now by life. He was there with me when it all happened and yet he isn't standing with me now. I hate him for it.

And then, suddenly terrified of being like him, I cut into the dinner conversation. "Last night I dreamt that one of my teeth was coming loose. It was such a cliche that I was able to wake myself up, disgusted with my subconsciousness."

This comment is acknowledged by no one, and when a suitable amount of awkward moments have passed, familiar conversation resumes. Current topics: The X Factor (this is a constant), the Take That and Spice Girls reunion tours, I'm A Celebrity..., the Evil of Pete Doherty, how if you rotate your right foot clockwise and then draw a '6' with your right hand your foot will change direction, text messaging and the Teddy Bear Row Teacher. I have nothing to say. Cheryl holds her own, and while she tells me she is just being polite, she has a suspiciously encyclopaediac knowledge of reality shows.

Afterwards, spaced out on sofas in front of the television, stealing glances at our watches and fending off requests from young children to play with them, my father gets his revenge by making me feel worthless again. Although I shouldn't have asked, faux-innocently, "What do you think of my novel?"

"Haven't read it," he says immediately.

"Really?" I ask. "Well, you've only had it, ooh, eighteen months."

"Science Fiction isn't really my cup of tea," he sniffs.

"Futuristic thriller," I correct him.

He waves a dismissive hand. "Aliens and other worlds and all that nonsense."

"You should read it," Cheryl says. "It's really good."

My father turns to Brian. "Have you read this book?" Brian looks up, startled. He nods. "And what did you think?"

Brian shrugs. "It's alright," he manages.

"My family," I announce to Cheryl.

"Are you staying tonight?" Sharon asks me.

"No, I have to work early tomorrow."

My father looks at me, feigning surprise. "I'd have thought that one of the perks of being a successful writer was getting up when you want."

"I'm working at Bid TV," I tell him. "I'm a cameraman, remember?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you were a big shot author."

I swallow my anger. "It's not out for a year," I manage.

He waves another hand. "You'll never make it. Get a proper job, my boy. None of this shopping telly rubbish. Get a career."

"What, work in the same office for forty-five years? Do you know how difficult it is to get a novel published?"

"When I was your age I owned a house and was supporting a wife and three children. You don't know the meaning of hard work."

"You don't know the meaning of support," I say somewhat nonsensically, and get up to leave.

"Don't be a damn fool," he says.

"Don't be a total fucking tedious, deceitful gnarly old wanker," I say, and we leave.

It'll be OK. Things heal. We're family.