A Happy Pig

I used to wish I were dead. Not so much that I would have done away with myself, because I have children, but I felt I could not go on. I also used to wish he’d died. Died instead of leaving us. Continue reading A Happy Pig


The Letter Writers

I was selling stuff.  My ex had bolted, I had no income and he was not giving me any money for the mortgage or indeed to feed or clothe the children (let alone their school fees). So I was flogging what belongings I could on ebay and at car boot sales. (This generated virtually nothing, as you might expect, so did little to solve the problem.) Continue reading The Letter Writers


Just came across some stuff which reminded me that when my ex walked out on us and went to stay in a hotel, I was (amongst other things!) anxious about the cost. Although he had been earning a good salary * we had stratospheric outgoings with a monthly mortgage payment that was more than some people earn in a year, and three children in not just any old independent schools, but three of the priciest in London. And so on. Continue reading Marginal