I was a size 14 now, and once more able to squeeze into old jeans and frocks. One night when Tony was out working late, I bundled up my teeshirts, sweatshirts and my two dark suits for work, piled them in the garden and, no doubt in direct contravention of countless regulations from Brussels, tipped paraffin on them and threw a burning spill into their midst. They went up with a satisfying ‘whoomph!” They were still smouldering when, as an afterthought, I flung all Tony’s letters on top of them. I then tried to retrieve them, failed and burned my fingers.

My circumstances had worsened, but my ability to do something about them had increased a hundredfold. I was at last considering myself as an active, even an independent force with options open to me.