It is a strange compulsion this ongoing urge to wash my dirty linen quite so dramatically  in public, but humour me  Dear Housekeepers, public confession is simply one alternative to a straight-jacket.

There is a whisker growing out of my chin. Oh yes. There I was scrutinising my face in the little mirror in the bathroom for reasons for much discussed abandonment. Tilting my head this way and that. And there it was. A revolting bloody great long black whisker hanging off my face.
So as you do, I gave it a tug that brought tears to my eyes and confirmed beyond all doubt, that yes it was attached and yes it is true: I am the She-Devil before the surgery.

How does it happen this taking over of who you used to be? How is it possible that I haven’t looked at my face long enough to see  it? Have other people  noticed and  felt too mortified  for me to point it out? 

Readers I cried. Of all the things that could have made me cry in the past fortnight, it turns out that vanity is my tipping point. So I stood in the bathroom and sobbed into a towel folded the Martha way, while Finley held an action man tea party in his bedroom.
Then I wiped my eyes, gave the taps a  polish for good luck and went to face the day. God help me: in the face of trauma I am Bree Van De Kamp.

Here’s the thing: you think you are doing alright. You think you are holding things together. But there are tell tale signs of my slipping down life in every room. On every inch of my body.

At night I don’t  take off the myriad of cushions  off my bed, but move them over to the left side of the bed, where  Mark should  be, so by the morning I wake to find myself clinging to the edge of the bed, as if, as usual  he is sprawled  diagonally across my dreams.

The house is immaculate, but I didn’t empty the kitchen bin yesterday. The glass in every mirror in the house is smeary, all the better not to see whiskers or the nose hair that is no doubt on it’s way. The fridge is wierdly empty and I’m aching for a hug.

He’s coming around to talk this weekend. Maybe he’s coming to talk about my whiskers.

Or maybe he’s coming home. Please let him be coming home.