n October 2022, I fled my high-conflict marriage and our three-story terraced house Kensal Rise, London, and moved myself and my sons into a two-bedroom rental flat around the corner. The flat was a fraction of the size of our house and cost roughly four-times as much to maintain. To say I could scarcely afford it is an indication of my desperation-level at the time. Just before Christmas, without warning or explanation, I returned to the family home to collect a stray cookbook and found it abandoned — lights blazing. No explanatory text or note. Judging by the food rot and general disarray, it had been vacant for some time. The reasons why are a whole other story (one I will not be telling here) but the upshot was that I went back to the cramped overpriced rental flat and, while the boys were at school, packed up all our belongings again and moved all three of us back into the house. We’ve continued to live here ever since