I don’t know whether this is a sign of how fast he moved on, how woefully neglected my grooming regime is, or just how toe-curlingly awful the toe-covering months have been.

Definitely though, it felt like a sign.

I think when I applied it that I thought I was ‘making an effort’. I didn’t know it was already too late.

And so I have spent a long time this evening doing nothing productive, staring at my toes.

And thinking.

I could of course break out the nail polish remover and scrub off every last vestige of chipped red.

I could pick out a new bright and shiny colour to replace it. Hot pink, perhaps. Maybe add a layer of glitter?

But I can’t quite bring myself to do it. And I don’t really know why.

I suppose the truth is that I’m not ready.

I don’t want my feet, or any other bit of me, to look attractive for anyone.

What I want is the reminder.

My new reality is still so painful and the future is so very unknown. I don’t know when or if I’ll ever have sex again. If l’ll ever want to. If anyone will ever want me. Want us. I don’t know where I’m going to live, where the Smalls will live, what school they will go to, what our lives will look like or who will still be in them. I don’t know much.

It’s like I still need an anchor, a connection with the past – which whatever else it lacked was at least consistent.

And it’s there, right at the end of my toes, in a thin smear of old scarlet.

So I’m leaving it. The last half centimetre of my old life. To grow slowly out, to be snipped off bit by bit over the next few weeks, in appropriately grotesque curls (why ARE nails so much more offensive when removed from the body?)

It’s not long left to wallow.

And when it is gone it will be nearly summer and surely everything will look better and sunnier.

And maybe then I will be ready for pink and sparkly.

(Or at the very least be forced by the prospect of sandals into better podiatry maintenance).