Without a word I went back into the kitchen and started cooking. Shortly after, she followed me through. Again without speaking, I began to run cold water into the washing up bowl. She stood and watched me as I glanced at her over my shoulder. I then lifted the filled bowl from the sink and in the blink of an eye, launched the contents at her. She screamed as the cold water soaked her to the skin. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, dripping, her hair lank and her vest transparent.

“You bastard!” she hissed and stormed out of the room.

I figured that would finish her stay, but instead she locked herself in the bathroom for the rest of the night. I had to resort to pissing in an empty jam jar, and had to wait until I arrived at work, unkempt, unwashed, unshaven, before taking a dump.

That evening she was still there, this time wearing a pair of my jeans that because of the size difference hung low – really low – on her hips, and one of my T-shirts. Again, I ignored her.

This went on for the rest of the week. I went out with some of the guys on Friday night and rolled home early Saturday morning, pissed. I conked out on the sofa and slept till lunch.

When I awoke, Louise had gone. Shaking with uncertainty and a raging hangover, I rechecked all of the rooms before letting out a very quiet whoop of joy. A number of my belongings – a couple of T-shirts, CDs and a book – were missing, but at last I was free. And it felt good.

I ate my brunch and signed on to check my email. I went about my business as I had before and during my relationship with Louise. Life went on, although as night fell a strange realisation hit: I missed her….