After a half-hearted run, which I gave up on after about 5k, decided to do a spot of gardening. There were still leaves from the autumn scattered about, the rest of the was overgrown. The roses needed deadheading.

I could hear my husband vacuuming inside.

I stopped at 12:30 for lunch. He was there having a fag in the kitchen.

“Thank you for hoovering,” I said.

“I’ve been cleaning up my room,” he replied – so he’d not been doing housework per se.

“I’ve cleared my clothes out of the wardrobe in your room,” he continued, “I need to do a bit of a clothing cull.”

“Your room,” he said. I don’t think of it as my room, even though I cannot remember the last time we actually slept together.

I was shocked. I didn’t know what to say. Of course, if he is going to move out eventually he does need to sort things through.

Still, I cannot believe that this is really happening.

Perhaps that has been my problem all along.

Or was the problem that I feared this from the start – and fear creates its own reality.