Ted went downstairs to get the pram ready while she dressed the baby. I stayed behind a minute, zipping up my son's coat. Sylvia turned to me, suddenly without gush.

"I'm so glad you picked that poem," she said. "It's one of my favourites but no one else seemed to like it."

For a moment I was completely blank; I didn't know what she was talking about. She noticed and helped me out.

"The one you put in the Observer a year ago. Abotu a factory at night."

"For Christ's sake, Sylvia Plath." It was my turn to gush, "I'm sorry. It was a lovely poem."

"Lovely" wasn't the right word, but what else do you say to a bright young housewife?

Childhood

Education

Courtship

Marriage

He is a breaker of things and people.