Ever since Pest n.1 pointed out that Mr Husband and I argue, I have been checking myself. And my tongue. I know I can have a rather sharp one. I have also been analysing my leaking married life, with a special focus on the other half sharing it. When did I last have a conversation with him? You know, a proper conversation which did not involve sarcasm (mine), patronising behaviour (his), below-the-belt blows or even little but still painful digs?

I cannot remember. We seem to disagree on absolutely everything, apart from political beliefs, a love for Alfa Romeo cars, the importance of grammar and the state of education in this country.

Even if you add the above list to the fact that we have two children, it still makes a pretty dim reading. When did I lose Mr Husband? More to the point, when did he lose me? He is an extemely intelligent and articulate man; a person of integrity, someone to trust and rely on.

I find the concept of trust, oddly, a very fluid one. I know I can trust Mr Husband to look after us in a tangible, real way: the tyres, oil, water and general wellbeing of the car I drive are regularly checked by Himself. He is happy to come shopping with me, is interested in my taste in clothes and has never complained about my occasional irrational spree and subsequent blow to the budget. Not a single anniversary has ever passed without at least three cards and a large bunch of flowers. Hey, sometimes I get flowers for no reason at all, always my favourite, and in my favourite colour.

But.

There will always be a 'but', or more than one, when people look outside their marriage for the elusive factor to keep them alive.

Trust should extend to my being confident that, no matter how tatty and shredded my soul is - and it has been many times over the years - I should always be able to scrunch it up and throw it at the man I have chosen to spend the rest of my life with. And he should be able to catch it and hold it very carefully in his big hands.

The 'scrunching up' has sometimes been necessary when I have felt so disconnected with myself that self-loathing has resulted; I believe that, on the occasions when I have given up on myself, I should still be able to trust somebody else to be strong enough to carry me. The 'throwing' is, of course, just that: here, catch this painful, sore and lonely thing, if you can.

Mr Husband cannot.

Tonight I wonder, once again, after I have done the washing-up, have tidied up and picked up all the toys and plumped up the cushions, when I disappear upstairs to dive into the alternative life I have found, leaving him behind with his DVD and paper, what Mr Husband's thoughts are. Is he scared? Does he know of my leaking life? Does he think that he has one too? Is he worried that confronting the distance between us may lead him to face my indifference?

I have noticed some effort: the thoughtful games he played with the boys today; the 'Olympics for children' staged in the garden, with hurdles and poles; how often he volunteers to bathe them, and how keen he is to watch yet another film with the little ones.

But.

When my soul is sore and I want to get rid of myself, when I am happy and need to share silly things, when I have dreams which do not necessarily coincide with his, Mr Husband is not there to catch.