It's like trudging home after br a heavy day at the workface, br you open the front door br and the house is rent with upraised voices - br all the children adding new wounds br to years of grievance; your eldest daughter br threatens once again to go live with her boyfriend br although she's under age; your eldest son br despairs of girls 'not being able to argue properly'; br the cry, 'that's not f a i r..' rings through the house; br the younger ones still seek adults to be on their side, br - for the moment - to dispense justice br to the aggrieved, comfort the broken-hearted... br br Are you glad you came home br without your usual stop off at the pub? br It's all so familiar...dammit, you know very well br you'll miss them when eventually br it all goes quiet... but at least br they certainly know about justice br when it's not there for them... br they'll be vigorous employees, br trade unionists one and all, br if and when they leave the nest.. br br Were the 18th century coffee houses br from which emerged those tracts br of endless literary abuse, br sharpening their language on each other, br just like this? 'A polarity of poets' br might serve for a corporate term.