There we go. Candles, check. Silver cutlery, check. Best table cloth, check. I think it’s all in place.

I suppose you’re wondering what I’m doing ... what’s the big event.

Well, I’m celebrating a death. The death of an enemy. Don’t look so shocked, it happens all the time, only we generally hide our smug satisfaction behind hypocritical remarks. We kill a person year in year out with our snide remarks, our innuendos, and our cruel ignore, and then when they’re dead praise them for qualities we refused to acknowledge while they were alive. Well, I’m going to call a spade a spade. He’s dead, and it’s out with the candles.

No-one knows where it started. It goes too far back for that. But whenever a misfortune hit us, somehow the Martins were there. Nothing could ever be pinned directly, of course, but nonetheless it always came down to them. It’s said that once our families were in partnership, but the business went bankrupt. When the dust settled, somehow they kept their fine mansion, but we ended up on the streets. For generations after, our family spoke their name in hate.

The liturgy was well drummed into me as I grew up, and I learned it well. I had every reason. There was a Martin in my class at school, and I soon learned to loathe him. One of those kids that get right up your nose. Good looking, so the girls fell over him, and he did everything brilliantly without trying. I played second fiddle to him right through high school. No matter how hard I tried, he always went one better. Even took the one girlfriend I had at school.