It’s a strange thing, coming out of a chrysalis and finally becoming a butterfly in your mid-forties. I’m on an early-morning train to San Diego, and I can’t stop looking at my hair.

It started the way most evolution does: with death. First comes the dying, then comes the rebirthing. For the butterfly, it’s the caterpillar: for me, it was my landlord.

Some men think that if you’re a woman of a certain age and you live alone, you deserve to be taken advantage of. You start with little things, like charging for necessary repairs, or simply withholding basic courtesies, like a toilet that flushes. Then you start letting yourself in. The masterstroke is when you tell your tenant that you’ll reduce their rent if they just do you one little favour…

So what do you do? Faced with dwindling savings, a tiny severance package, and an uncertain job market, what do you do?

And what do you do when the bastard then doesn’t even lower your rent?

Well, something inside you dies and something else inside you gets a little harder. Somewhere inside you begin to plot and scheme, to see opportunities that others aren’t even looking for…

And then one day: success. No one is looking. He doesn’t see it coming. The job is surprisingly quick.

His dogs turned their noses up at first, but when they’ve gone a few days without food, I’m sure they’ll come around.

He always did carry wads of cash to flash around, and this is the more expensive hairdo I’ve had in a long time.

Good morning, San Diego.