They, of course, did not see the nightly screaming fits, the fist fights (always started by me, by the way), the hateful, dutiful sex, with both of us torn between distaste for one another and the desire to make it all right by a miraculous conception, the silent, brooding sulks which often endured for days on end. This was the worst sort of loneliness yet contrived by humans – loneliness a deux.

We had nothing to say to one another. The two computers were hated rivals. Tony eyed his as he forced down his supper, longing to be wrapped once more in the warmth of its light and safe in a world where mere virtual decapitation or car-crash were the worst threats. I too had taken to finding refuge on the web, not in formal games but in communities.

I have tattoos, so I found a community of tattooed people. I like certain bands. I found others who liked them too. I had been a scuba diver in adolescence. I joined clubs of other divers and chatted to them for hours.

I counselled and flirted and was flattered and told my secrets to these stranger-friends all over the world.

I needed other people. I needed to prompt responses in them, to help them, to share with them. Tony wanted to hide from human emotions and vulnerability. Each of us had left far behind us the things that we had loved as individuals. We regarded one another as tormentors and custodians.

Yet, believe it or not, we were still in love.

Horrifically, each of us represented the only cure and relief for the pain which we caused to one another. When Tony put his arms around me and I leaned back against him, everything seemed all right again. To be physically close to him and to snuggle into him was to know release and indescribable pleasure. We still dreamed of children together.