YOU make me do it.

I tripped over the detritus coming home in the wee hours, in the dark. We live in a "nice bit" of our community. We're rarely bothered by outside troubles; my neighbours are lovely, stellar. Unusually, some broken wood lying across the path, a wee bit of damage, and it didn't occur to me that Something Might Have Happened.

A stubbed toe and a near pratfall were enough to bring it up in conversation with the residents opposite. Something had happened, it turned out. A couple rowing, a voice raised. Possibly a fist too. And then, the standout line: "You make me do it."

Five short, staccato words, like five short staccato punches.

You. Make. Me. Do. It.

If I had been home 15 minutes earlier, I was told, I would have seen for myself. How many times in life do you have that hang over you - if I had just been five, 10, 15 minutes earlier.

"You make me do it." Five short words enough to bring my neighbour hurling downstairs and out into the street to put a stop to things.

It is easy to think great strides have been made in eradicating domestic violence. Great strides have been made: in policy, in public attitudes, in police attitudes and more.

And then you hear that wee sentence and the heart sinks. The heart sinks that there are still men trying that old line on for size. The cheek of them, the utter gall.

Suddenly change seems slow.

Cliche is a useful thing and also a dreadful thing when it comes to intimate human relationships.

How my heart was warmed, though, by the heartbroken musician in Bristol who ordered a piano to be delivered to College Green in the centre of the city and vowed to play it non-stop until his ex-girlfriend of four months returned to him. Oh, Luke Howard, the musician, did not warm my heart. The response to him has - a distinct turning of the tide against cliche.

Instead of viewing him sympathetically, the view was this: a desperate man with boundary - and possibly control - issues publicly humiliating himself and harrassing a woman who clearly stated she wants nothing further romantically to do with him.

The initial coverage of Mr Howard's feat was sympathetic. Romantic, it was called, a "grand gesture". It seems the media view was slightly behind step with public opinion. Creepy, people said, abusive.

After 48 hours of this, Mr Howard quit. He admitted that he was "turning myself into the largest fool in the West Country." He denied having tried to "coerce, emotionally force or use pity to bring this girl back into my life." He said that notion was insulting to the woman in question - one assumes she was a woman and not a girl, Mr Howard being 34 years old - as she is "strong willed" and "decisive".

Perhaps Mr Howard might like to dwell on how little insight he showed into the feelings of the person he so claims to love. He did this for himself, not for her. How little he thought of the possible consequences. No, Mr Howard is undeterred. His takeaway from the experience is, "The lack of understanding [shown to me] just reminds me of how very rare a thing pure love actually is."

That's not pure love, that's selfishness. It's the kind of thing romantic comedy conditions us to believe is ideal love. The man who doesn't listen to "no" but who wears down the object of his desires with a glut of unasked for attention. Object is a key word there, not woman. Not autonomous human being.

The social media reaction to Bristol Piano Man was heartening because it feels like a stand against damaging cliche. An opening of the eyes.

Bill Walker, the shamed politician who abused three former wives and a stepdaughter over 30 years has a book out, claiming that he is the victim of a vendetta. Another cliche: "She's making it up."

If I had been home 15 minutes earlier I would have caught that girl, that young woman, and told her what I hope she already knows: it is never about you.

That's a cliche worth repeating.