Jack strides out through the garden gate and I think that he must be back off up town to stock up on more booze or whatever it is he's been taking tonight. Instead, to my horror, he purposely kicks open next-door's garden gate and rushes to grab the collar of our unsuspecting next-door neighbour. The poor man is thrown off balance by the surprise attack and doesn't have enough time to gather himself for protection. He's quite a big guy himself, but Jack is wider and taller and about fifteen years younger.

I'm frozen in a state of disbelief at the window, my neck aching from craning round to see properly out of the left hand side.

This can't be happening.

Things quickly go from bad to worse as Jack punches our neighbour in the stomach and grapples him round the body.

Who is this man masquerading as my husband?

A few of the female guests scream at the attacker and a couple of the male ones start to get involved. The music is still booming out as Jack, the neighbour, and two of the party-goers, become a brawling mess of arms and legs, scrabbling and kicking up the gravel from the garden path.

Should I go out and try to stop it?

I would like to have the courage to do so, but the fear of violence is too much for me to cope with. I've seen so many bad nights outside the clubs of Manchester, on a Saturday night, that I know exactly how quickly things can turn very, very nasty.

Finally, after what feels like forever - but is probably only a matter of minutes, police sirens wail and flashing blue lights come round the junction at the end of our road.

Oh no, I don't believe this.

Jack appears to have shaken off the two men, and is now attempting to scramble over the wreckage of the garden gate in a desperate plea for escape. The sirens may have snapped him out of his totally uncharacteristic behaviour.

One of the angry party-goers, a young woman in a very short black dress, throws her beer bottle at his back, screaming and swearing like an Amazonian warrior. I gasp as the weapon glances of his shoulder and smashes against our neighbours car door.

The police arrive. Quickly and forcefully, a pair of officers pull Jack over the garden gate and begin to try and make sense of the situation. As I watch, dumbfounded, another of the officers is at the door of the house opposite ours, taking notes from an elderly neighbour in his dressing gown. That must be who made the call to them.

Jack is brought round to the front of our property and pushed down to sit on our garden wall. I can't see his face, but the look of his hunched shoulders tells me the worst is over, and he's no longer on the attack.

I step into my trainers by the front door, pushing the heel down rather than stopping to waste time undoing and re-tying laces. Shuffling down the garden path, I purposefully ignore the urge to look over the wall at the carnage next door. The last thing I want is to make eye contact with that poor man. I'm humiliated enough as it is. I come up to the left of Jack, behind the wall, the flashing orange and blue lights make my eyes blink. With my arms folded, I give the policemen an apologetic smile, and peek round to get a look at his face.

He's crying!

Automatically, I put my arms around him as tears prick my eyes while my heart aches. What could possibly have happened to turn my soft hearted man into this animal?

The two police officers look at me sternly, then the older one asks in a clear, loud voice, "Does this one belong to you, love?"

********
Fast forward to two months later, it's June 2008 and I'm finishing my lunch shift at work. The bar is quiet today, and I only have to restock the fridges under the bar ready for the evening, then I can go home. Back to Jack.

He's been staying at home a lot more after that incident. He still can't explain what had happened to make him act that way. His drinking has calmed down a bit as he tends to stay in with a bottle, rather than head out with his work-mates.

As I check off the list of what's needed from the storeroom, the general manager walks in.

The radio is blaring out as usual over the sound system, Oasis giving their Mancunian best. It's cloudy and grey outside, so I'm quite willing to be here and paid for my time, when I would have little to do at the house anyway. However, there is one very important reason for me to want to get back home.

"Jill?" The manager, Mr Wilson, knows us all by name at last, an astounding feat that's only taken him three years to do.

I poke my head up from behind the bar.

"Ah, there you are. Can you come into the office for a moment, please."

It's more of an order than a request, I can tell.

We go through to the back of the large bar room and into the office next to the kitchen. It's a bit like a broom cupboard. There's no window, a desk that's too large for the room and papers strewn everywhere, interspersed with stale coffee cups and crisp packets. Mr Wilson is a good manager but a complete slob. He waves me to a seat.

"So, Jill, how long have you been with us now?"

I have to get this over with quick, what's he got me in here for? Not clearing the drip trays again, I suppose?

"Listen, Jill, I don't really want to have to do this, but the brewery has left me no choice. I've got to cut back on our spending and unfortunately that means cutting back on staff.... "

Oh no. My stomach sinks.

"This being as it is..." He seems to be so at home with the situation, I can just imagine this little man striding up and down in a courtroom, dressed as a lawyer, giving his pompous speech to the jury. "We've come to the decision to let you go."

As he goes through the legalities of how I'm being dumped by the one thing that has kept me sane for the past few months, I have the strangest sensation of really not caring anymore.

We part on good terms, something I strive to do with any job, as you never know when you might have to come crawling back, and I wish all my colleagues well. They're obvious in showing me that they're relieved that it's me on the way out and not them. Not many are sad to see me go.

I ride the bus home in quiet contemplation. So what happens now? I look out the window, watching people hurry about the busy, grey streets with pushchairs, walking sticks, dogs and shopping bags. I'm detached from reality. None of that matters as I smile and press my hands over my abdomen. I get off at my stop, saying thank you as usual to the driver, and walk up our road. The wind has got up, wafting over the smell of fresh cut grass from dozens of gardens.

After checking that our officially abused neighbour isn't anywhere to be seen, I manage to avoid another excruciatingly embarrassing confrontation with the poor man and make it through the front door.

Jack's cleaning up in the kitchen. I take off my shoes and coat and go through the living room to stand in the kitchen doorway. He turns from the sink and smiles.

"Hi, Gorgeous."

I watch him for a while, taking in his broad shoulders, handsome face and infectious smile. I go to him, throw my arms around him, and hold him close, breathing in his warm, smell of home. I'm happy to be his, no matter what, my heart is full of love right now. I hope that he's glad he chose to stay and didn't mean the spiteful things he said on that horrible night of the party. This man who laughs at Mr Bean and sings at the top of his voice in the car. The man who takes my hand and leads me to bed with a cheeky grin, who kisses me so passionately and whispers in my ear. His love is too blatant to be false, my heart is his and he knows it. I hope that what I'm about to say will make him happy, there's nothing I want more than that.

"Jack, I'm pregnant."