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We also have our own gardens separated by a fence, over which we chat.
To my mind, we have the best of both worlds: separate lives and yet the trust and companionship of marriage.
Afterwards, I'd go home and leave him to the washing-up - a treat indeed.
I began cooking Sunday lunch for him and found him more appreciative than before.
Although I love my husband and he makes a great next-door neighbour, there's no way I want to live with him.
Admittedly, this isn't the way I imagined things would turn out when we married in September 1973, after meeting at art school three years earlier.
To be honest, I think we've hit on an arrangement that most women secretly wish for, sick of the squabbling over the washing-up or their husband's shavings in the sink.
As a nonsmoker, I liked not having Jan smoke in the house nor having to put up with him watching blaring, violent action films. I still liked the idea of marriage and did want to meet someone, but although I once plucked up the courage to reply to a lonely hearts ad in the local paper, my date turned out to be awful. As the months passed, he appeared very contrite, sad and vulnerable.I missed the culture of our marriage, the things we'd shared.I especially missed our holidays, drinking coffee in small cafés in the South of France and wandering round Italian art galleries together. I knew Jan regretted his behaviour and after 18 months he asked to move back in with me.We did the place up and over the years I filled it with carefully selected artwork and ceramics.
Sadly, we weren't able to have children, so we concentrated on each other.And he knew he couldn't light up in my house, because I had the power to tell him not to after all those years of having to put up with his smoking.