I've lived in London for three years. I hadn't spent much time in Britain before my arrival and had no particular feelings toward the English. I expe… - Megan Nolan

It is disturbing to imagine a figure of apparent dignity and autonomy, one who achieved such mastery in her field, as weak enough to indulge this sort of thinking. This sort of self-pity, this admission of dependence – not just on a man, but a man capable of abusing children and blaming it on them.

In the midst of all this, I've noticed a tonal shift in the way I and other Irish people speak about the English. Our anger is more sincere. We are more ready to call them out on all those centuries of excess, more likely to object to those pink-trousered, pink-faced dinosaurs who still perceive us as their inferiors.

Though there is more I could say on this – details that would both elicit sympathy and make me look like a spoiled little shit – that was all there really was to it. The slow, boring poison of drink and secret-keeping, spread out into every part of my life, so that nothing was safe or good any more. Until I woke up one day and realised I could not remember the last time I had read a book.