During one of the more volatile periods of my relationship with Crazy Tom, we decided that a short spring break in West Wales was just what we needed to chill out and sort ourselves out. So we rented a romantic cottage for two on the cliffs and off we went.
Gosh, the mistakes you make in your twenties.
It was a terrible, terrible week. We argued constantly, about what to do, where to go, whether we wanted to be together. And once, about me being unsupportive of his weight-loss programme by eating a small piece of chocolate.
We argued about something on the way home in the car, and Tom's driving became really erratic. He used to use the car to scare me - it took ages after I left to lose the scars on the palms of my hands caused by my nails as I sat on my clenched fists as he threw the car around corners.
We pulled in to a car-park in Haverfordwest and I said that unless he calmed down, I was getting the train home.
He promised to calm down.
We started off again.
We started arguing again.
He started slewing the car all over the road and lashing out at me again.
Eventually I yelled at him to pull over again.
I got out of the car, got my bag out of the boot and legged it back towards Haverfordwest, along the grass verge on the side of the A40, sobbing.
He leapt out of the car and followed me.
I turned round, legged it back to the car, got in, locked all the doors and drove off.
After a couple of miles it became obvious to me that it wasn't really safe for me to be driving and having hysterics at the same time, so I stopped in a layby and had a cup of tea out of my thermos. About half an hour later I saw Tom's hat, bobbing over the crest of the hill, in the driving rain. He walked down the hill and stood by the passenger door of the car.
I leant over and opened it.
He got in and said "Shall we go home?"
I said "Yes, okay." and started the engine.
And we never referred to it again.