At the time, I had this irrational thought that things would have been so much better if was a smoker.

Max, 7 months old, settled down to cry, and cry, and cry in the evenings. He was dedicated, inconsolable, so very durable and resilient in his upset. His emotions were the weather of my life, and the tears, they were the hurricane, wind and wild weather.

If I were a smoker, I’d have been able to slip out, svelte and sophisticated, cool and unconcerned. I’d light up with that satisfying click-hiss sound of the lighter, followed by the crackle of the burn, the first pull, that acrid and satisfying mouthful. There’d have been a pleasure and release drawing me out to the street, a ritual pleasure.

As it was, I didn’t smoke then, and I still don’t.

The desperate truth was I was running, I left to escape the storm wreaking havoc in our flat. I’d been measured, and found wanting. I left John to don his waterproof and wellies and hunker down with his stolid acceptance of the howling, the tears, to hold on tight until the storm blew itself out.

Afterwards, I’d return and inspect the damage. Tear tracks down his angelic, beautiful sleeping face. Peace.