Pas Devant Les Enfants

[To the person who came to holyhoses by means of searching for "women fucking hoses," I say: ew.]

We've decided not to talk about the incident in front of the kids any more. They both seem to be doing okay with it, though Didi fell asleep at nursery yesterday and had to be collected and taken home, so she's obviously not been getting enough sleep.

In the spirit of shutting the stable door, we changed the lock on the front door, so I guess that's okay, and I check and double-check every night before I go up. He came round, I should mention that, came round with yet more flowers and a box of chocs for the kids, and apologised effusively for his behaviour, which he also did in a letter to the same effect. So he's trying to do the right thing about it, fine, but you know, even this morning, feeling my way downstairs in the dark (didn't want to turn the landing light on in case it woke the kids), I had a heart-stopping moment at the bottom as I just pictured in my mind what it would be like to find someone sitting down there.

Your imagination is a powerful thing, and you can convince yourself that you see faces in the bathroom tiles, or that the shape of the blanket and the cushion on the couch is actually a person who has broken into your home. Maybe I should just turn the lights on, to hell with waking the kids.