It was a late saturday night and my husband, Graham (31 and a bit), and I went to our local social club. We had a good night, a few cups of tea and we watched people dance while they put extra clothes on. All in all a wild night.

On the way home, Graham said he wanted to ‘try new things’. I suggested a different crossword or a new pair of slippers, but he had other things in mind. He said he wanted to… hold hands. I unwillingly agreed and we walked home hand in hand. Luckily it was dark and there were no policemen about.

When we got home, Graham seemed excited. It was strange, we usually do two or three puzzles before bed, but tonight we only did one. Graham then suggested we had an early night. I don’t know if it was the tea talking, but this didn’t sound like Graham. As I got into bed, I noticed that he’d forgotten to put his bed-socks on. I was worried. And that’s when it happened.

As I was finishing my wordscramble, Graham leaned over with the clear intention of kissing me. I tried to stop him but he wasn’t having any of it. As he leaned over with those menacing puckered lips, I reacted quickly. I picked up the dog and threw him at Graham. This only encouraged him and confused the dog. So I picked up Graham’s antique vase and smashed it on his head. He lay, quite unconscious in a pool of blood. I was terrified… I’d broken his favourite vase!

I rushed downstairs to find the glue, but we’d ran out. When I got back upstairs Graham was still resting. I waited for several days for him to wake up, but eventually I realised the obvious truth… Graham had committed suicide because of his broken vase.