Winter in 2009 proved to be very lucky for me. On the Tuesday before Christmas day, I was doing some last minute shopping with Simon in his fully loaded pushchair. He made a great vehicle for clearing the crowd from our path, a little buggy snow plough for people. I saw a sign in a pub window on the way back home. The Coach and Horses was just a few minutes walk away from our house. So feeling confident, I pulled Simon's pushchair in backwards and went to get myself that job.

The  following Christmas week was spent in a very different way than usual as I hardly had time to be with the family, although Jack did visit me regularly to prop up the bar on his time off from work. It made the job all the more pleasant to have the opportunity to spend the quieter spells with him, chatting as we had when we first met, with him the other side of the bar.

The festivities are now well and truly over and Mum's coming round this evening to babysit. My job's continuing and Jack's on nights this week so we've called her to help out. I think she enjoys her time alone with her grandson. Maybe she feels she missed out by not having a boy herself? In any case she's certainly a great asset for us, as we're finally earning enough money to even start saving something, as well as get new furniture, totally unheard of so far in our married lifetime.

As mum rings the door bell, I put on the animated dvd that Simon's recently into. He's sitting on the sofa, upright in his cosy duck-patterned pyjamas, clapping his hands and grinning his toothy smile with delight.

"Granny!" He squeals happily as I let her in.

"Hello my little angel." She says, then turns to reprimand me, "Why do you always stick him in front of the tv? It's not healthy for him all the time."

We've had this discussion on more than one occasion.

"It's not all the time, Mum. It's only before bed and nap time."

Naptime is a complete myth. Simon never sleeps during the day and I'm having trouble getting enough rest myself. I'm not sleeping well at night and I'm always tired during the day. In between lunch and evening shifts at the Coach and Horses, I find myself falling asleep on the sofa with Simon thankfully captivated by his favourite movie.

Jack's started going out more with the boys again. For a while after we came back from Italy, he seemed happier and wanted to spend a lot more of his free time with Simon and me. His drinking had eased up and we were making good progress in the bedroom department too, our honeymoon period being long gone after the arrival of Simon. Now it's kind of ebbed away again since he started back to work after the Christmas holidays.

"Is everything alright at work?" Mum asks.

"Yes. It's not as busy as before, but Peter said that he can keep me on for good at the weekends if I want to."

"Oh, that's great news." She sits herself down next to Simon and squeezes his little hand. "Did Jack hear anything about that takeover?"

"Not yet...." I'm perching on the sofa arm while I lace up my ankleboots. Jack's dubious situation at work is making me nervous, losing his job would send him spiralling into trouble for sure. I was keeping optomistic for the both of us. "He's been there for a lot longer than some of the others, so I doubt they'll lay him off."

"Well, let's hope not." Mum allows Simon to climb onto her knee and bounce about in time to the music. I kiss him goodbye on the top of his mop of thick black hair and grab my bag to go.

Mum adds a pearl of wisdom. "Nobody's indispensable you know."

Turns out she is right. A week later Jack is called into human resources and given his notice. He comes home that afternoon while I'm elbow deep in melting chocolate with a chocolate faced Simon, dancing away in the kitchen to the radio, as we attempt to create the world's biggest cake.

The snow that had fallen briefly in the morning, was now turning to a dirty black sludge of gritty water on the window sill outside the kitchen. Rain has started to drip lazily in spits and spats, non-committed to fully bursting from the dark grey clouds. A strong gust of wind rips through and rattles the backyard gate every now and then. It's a good day to be inside.

I hear the front door close as Jack arrives.

"We're in here!" I call. I give Simon a wooden spoon to stir the cream and chocolate mixture ready for the topping. The two halves of the sponge cake are waiting on a tray, cooling and spreading the most delicious aroma around the house.

Jack kicks off his shoes and comes into the kitchen. His hair is shorter now, still long enough to tie back, but not so glossy and smooth as I remember it. He's also lost the goatee beard and elongated his sideburns so that they reach right down the sides of his face. He's gained a little weight, but nothing to worry about.

"Did you pick up the milk?" I ask, occupied with watching my mini-assistant.

Jack joins us at the kitchen counter and sticks his finger in the chocolate cream. "No, sorry, I forgot."

"Oh, thanks for that," I slam the spoon down on the kitchen counter, it doesn't take much to rile my temper these days. "You could have let me know. I need it for the filling."

Jack turns away and puts the kettle on. Pulling open the door to the kitchen cupboard, he asks in an everyday manner: "Do you want a cup of tea?"

That's unusual. I glance at him from the corner of my eye. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, fine. Why, what's the plan for dinner tonight then?"

That's it? As easy as that? I turn on him as quick as a whiplash.

"First you forget the milk and now you expect me to just come up with a menu for the evening meal? Why don't you do something around here for a change?"

Jack holds up his hands in surrender. "Woah, woah there Jilly! I only wondered if I had time to have something to eat before I meet Frank."

"Again?"

"Yes. And?"

"That's three times this week, Jack! Can't you save some money for once instead of pissing it up the wall?"

"Give over nagging me, woman. I don't gamble, I don't go off with other women and you always know where I am!"

"I know but you keep forgetting what happened a few years ago – Carl, next door?"

"Oh, come on. Do you have to throw that in my face anytime I do something wrong? Can't you let it go by now? Have I ever done anything remotely similar to that lately?"

"Okay, okay, but you've got to keep it in mind, Jack." I pick up Simon and sit him next to the sink under the window and try to clear some of the chocolate from round his face with a wet tea towel as I continue. "I never want to see that part of you again Jack. Never." Tears are pricking the corner of my eyes and my bottom lip is beginning to quiver. Simon stretches up a little hand to stroke my cheek. I can't resist a smile.

Jack concentrates on making his cup of coffee. When he's done, without looking at me he stays with his hands resting on the counter top, his shoulders hunched up as he stares at the liquid in his cup.

"It won't happen again." He sounds resigned and lifeless to me. I put Simon back down and the little boy runs over to his father and gives his legs a long and lasting hug.

"Daddy."

Brought back from wherever he was, my husband scoops up Simon to look directly and firmly into his eyes.

"Hello, munchkin. How's my little carpet commando today, ey?"

I smile and strip away any sign of tears in my traitorous eyes.

"Come on, Simon, let's get this cake together."

I come and take a hold of my child to bring him back to our work. My fingers touch Jack's and he grasps them strongly in position. His breath smells of bitter coffee and alcohol.

"I love you Jill."

"What is wrong with you today?"

I stay where I am, our arms clasped round our son as we look at each other.

"I got laid off this morning." Jack's gaze drops away.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Jack." And so worried. How's he going to cope with this? Will the binge-drinking start up again? I crush myself in closer, the three of us jammed together. We stay that way for a while. Until Simon wriggles and complains.

It's a long afternoon, turning into an evening consisting of endless discussions of future possibilities and suggestions of how we can turn this current situation around. Obviously we're constantly interrupted by Simon's various needs.

Play with me. I'm hungry. I've filled my nappy. I'm thirsty. Play with me. Bath me. Hug me. It's all dealt with as per usual automatically, and I have very little emotion to display to my child. I must say that I do love my little blue-eyed boy, but I can't seem to feel any joy in the regular everyday needs and service that I have to produce. Everything is such hard work. It's a constant production line of clean, feed, affection. I start to feel detached from the reality of having a young human being by my side, it's more of an assembly line.

For the last two months I've found myself crying at the stupidest things. T.V adverts with soppy animals or moving family moments. And don't get me started on films! The cartoons that Simon loves so much send me reaching for the tissues from the opening songs. I can be walking down to the shops, pushing Simon and see a bit of an old mangled animal, long dead on the side of the busy street. This will start my lip quivering and cause me to hastily reach in my bag for sunglasses so that I can hide my shameful condition. lt becomes the norm for my everyday life. The only time I escape this affliction is when I'm at work.

The busy, rough and ready pub is an old coaching house, filled on a Saturday night with loud youngsters and equally filled on a Sunday with lonely, interesting old characters. These old boys have some of the funniest and equally heartbreaking stories to tell. I've met retired Russian sea captains and ex-convicts with faded tattoos, all love to be listened to, if only for an afternoon.

I go to work that evening, leaving Jack in his subdued command of Simon. It's a steady evening and I enjoy the ritual of my job. Pour the pint, take the money, laugh along, clean the bar, tidy the tables, chat with the customer. A going nowhere job in my going nowhere life. But it's all mine.

I finish at about 11 pm and come home to my family. Jack's snoring in bed as I crawl in next to him. He rolls over and takes me in his arms.

*****

The next morning, the snow is falling heavily. Jack has gone to work by bus and left me the car to take Simon to a doctor's appointment in the city. I'd just got him into his blue, winter jumpsuit, and angled him into the car seat, ready to carry to the car. This is a momentous event for us to be up and ready before 10.00 am on a weekday.

As I finally click the safety belts together I can see from my position on hands and knees that there is a peanut gathering dust and hair under the sofa.

The dirty, yellow nut shows up clearly, against the blue carpet of our nineties' colour themed living room. Decorated in a Swedish style, the old Victorian terrace has taken us a lot of time and money to renovate to a passable standard.

I reach past Simon, as he giggles and kicks his snowsuit covered feet at me, and just about get my arm under the sofa, nearly touching that blasted peanut. Cursing under my breath as I shift position to lay flat out, I take up all the floor space of the square room and stretch my fingers further.

Nearly, nearly.

The sweat has started to run down my face as the combination of my thick winter coat and central heating battle to combat my efforts.

Got it!

The phone rings making me jump and the sticky nut flies from my grip, springing further into the darkness.

"Damn it!"

Simon giggles louder and wriggles more, squealing in a high pitched voice.

"Damd dit. Damd dit."

I hurry to the phone on the wall shushing the delighted child.

"956245...Yes?"

"Pronto? Jilly? This is Zio Alberto... Remember me?"

"Alberto, yes, yes, how are you?"

I recall the funny, middle aged man from our wedding. I shush Simon before asking something that has been praying on my mind.

"How is Great Aunt Maria?"

Now there is a character. 90 years old and still going up and down the hills in her town of Bergamo Alta like a great billy goat. Uncle Alberto's voice comes through strong but unsteady.

"Yes, that is why I call you. She died two weeks ago."

"Oh. I'm so sorry to hear that." Tears threaten again.

"No matter, she suffered and God said it was time for her to come home. So - " Zio Alberto pauses to clear his throat, I guess from suppressed emotion. I'm surprised that I'm not blubbering myself. Everybody had loved 'Nonnina'. "So, she gave you the apartment."

"Sorry?" Did I just hear him right? "She gave me the - what?"

"You no speak English now, ey?" Zio Alberto puts on an exaggerated Italian accent. "Oh, campagnola! I said she gave you the house. The bilocale in Bergamo Città Alta."

I sit down on the edge of the sofa, hand over mouth, in shock.

"Oh my God."