Ten years after my husband threw me out in the rain while I was carrying his twins, I watched him tell a television audience that his one regret was never having children.

And their father had just told eleven million people that he has never been a parent.

Not that he was estranged. Not that it was complicated. That he does not have children.

Underneath that programme, within about four minutes, people were calling him brave. A lonely man who built something enormous and paid for it with the only thing that actually matters.

Somebody wrote that they hoped he would meet somebody and still get his chance.

That comment had four thousand likes on it by the morning and it is still up.

I switched it off.

Ten years ago, in the October of 2014, Soren Vale put me out of a flat on Fennimore Street in the rain.

He threw money at me.

Not a figure of speech. He had it out of his wallet and in his hand and he threw it, on a step, at about eleven o'clock at night.