The storm has passed. We spent yesterday in long periods of silence interspersed with our thoughts on selling up and what a mistake we had made coming here to Devon. I had created the spark that lit the fire. A dead and lonely Friday which l threw in his face when he came in late that evening after driving home from teaching in Bath. It is me who must change. l hold the key to my own self-created prison. Today he struggles with a cold. We will not move. We must start saving for our crumbling chimney stack. The thaw is sending small pieces of frost split brickwork tumbling down the roof. Plus there is the matter of a water leak under the utility room floor. We are too scared to lift the linoleum.

On another matter - how can young, taunting, camp Master Gilmore - pictured swinging from a Union flag attached to the Cenotaph - claim not to know what it represents? I am told that our major wars are part of the school curriculum. Gilmore's father sent him to public school. I am saddened and ashamed and frightened for the future of humankind.