I must remain calm until I am in possession of all the facts.

The first step is to conduct a (basic) lie detector test. I position myself so my head is resting on the left hand side of his chest. Then I gently prod him awake and ask “Who is Maria?” His heart rate immediately (and audibly) increases as he feigns ignorance.

The next step is to make him talk. I pull my body back. And give him one almighty kick whilst bellowing “WHO THE FUCK IS MARIA?” He squeals in pain. I give him another kick. A two- legged (buckaroo style) one this time. He lands head first on the floor. His lower body remains on the bed; legs splayed with his bottom in the air. This (unfortunate) view momentarily brings to mind the haemorrhoid cream I found in his cabinet.

I recover quickly and repeat the question (again). He is still (foolishly) pleading ignorance. I lean forward. Grab his balls. And tell him I am giving him one last chance to tell me the truth. Otherwise I will destroy his chances of fatherhood. Permanently.

That seems to jog his memory. Maria is his girlfriend. I am now in possession of all the facts. And I am incandescent with rage.

He swears he had every intention of ending the relationship. That he doesn’t love her the way he loves me. He just needed confirmation that I wanted to be with him before he finished with her. He waits for my response (whilst nervously protecting his genitals with both hands). I surprise him with “So you’re a monkey now?” The idiot thinks it’s a reference to his hairy body (how unimaginative).

I am actually drawing a parallel between him trying to swing from one relationship to the next and a monkey swinging from one branch to another. He won’t let go of one until he has the other within his grasp. This is perfectly acceptable in a monkey (who is swinging in a tree). But it is both weak and despicable in a man (who isn’t).

He pleads, “Just give me a chance, please. I’ll end it tomorrow. I want to be with you”. I throw his clothes at him and order him to leave. He manages to get one leg in his pants as I’m shoving him out of the door. He is trying to simultaneously hop and walk. I watch (with a high degree of satisfaction) as he takes a tumble down the stairs. Then I slam the door shut. I refuse to cry. He is not worth it. I pop a couple of sleeping pills and go to bed until it is time for Mia to come home.

We are always very happy to see each other after a long weekend apart. She runs in with her arms outstretched. I scoop her up and hold her tight. But I can still feel that horrible knot in my stomach. I can’t believe he has a girlfriend. I feel so stupid.

I distract myself by taking Mia to the park. We finally return home exhausted. Then she drops her bombshell “Mummy, something feels stuck in my ear”. I check her ear. Nothing there. I tell her so. “Actually mummy, I know there is – I stuck a chick pea in my ear at school”. I ask her when. She thinks it was a few ‘sleeps’ ago.

I wearily pack a bag of wipes, books and snacks. It’s 8pm and we’ll probably spend the rest of the night in casualty.

We get there and I’m horrified to find that the same nurse is on duty that was there the last time we went a month ago. Damn. She remembers us. She gives me a tight lipped smile and tells me smugly that we’re in for a long wait. I don’t blame her. We caused a bit of a scene the last time we were here.

Mia had an ear infection and she was crying in pain. And that has a totally different effect on me than when she cries because I won’t let her have chocolate for breakfast. Said nurse decides to administer medication to ease the pain until we can see a doctor. Mia is hysterical. Shit. How do I deal with this?

I can’t think at my normal speed because emotion is involved. Yes. I know. My inability to deal with emotion is a recurring theme.

She’s screaming “Mummy, help me. Don’t let them do this”. And it’s killing me. But I want her pain to stop so I help them. I’m having difficulty holding her arms down.

That nurse loses patience with me and snaps "You’re not in control mum. You should be in control. Do your job”. I ask her calmly if she has any children. She says “No”. I scream at her at the top of my voice, tears streaming down my face “Well fuck off then!”

They finally manage to get it down her throat. Mia sits up wiping her mouth. She turns to the same nurse, points her little finger at her and scolds her with “That was not a nice thing to do to someone. You shouldn’t do that to people. You are not a nice lady”.

We stare defiantly at her. Me and my girl. Us against the world. Well, one nurse. But the principle of unity is the same.

So we’re in for a long wait and I can’t even complain. A chick pea in her ear is hardly grounds to demand to be seen before a baby that’s shooting out from both ends.

I look around and suddenly realise that all the other children have both parents with them. And what are the chances of that happening in London? Or anywhere in fact? Just my bloody luck.

I brace myself. Here it comes. I’m overwhelmed by loneliness. Not for long though. I notice Mia is about to get on a grubby bike. I grab the wipes and hurtle across the room towards her clutching them like a defensive shield and screaming “Noooooooooooo!” I pull her to safety. Then attack the bike in a wiping frenzy.

One packet of wipes and three hours later we finally get seen. No sign of the chick pea. I am advised to put a few drops of warm olive oil into her ear. I double check his ID to make sure he is a doctor and not a porter.

That’s what my mother suggested so naturally I assumed it was another one of those village ‘pearls of wisdom’ that could safely be filed under ‘useless – possibly dangerous’; along with their cure for constipation which is…..wait for it…..sticking half a bar of soap up your bottom!

The fact that you always went to the toilet shortly afterwards convinced them of its effectiveness. And speaking (sadly) from personal experience I can vouch that what they fail to take into account is that it not only brings out the poo, but half your bubbling insides along with it.

I thank the doctor and apologise to the nurse for swearing at her the last time we were here (it’s not her fault I can’t control my emotions).

We are driving home when ‘Just the Two of Us’ comes on the radio (I listen to Magic). I sing along. Mia loves it.

Then she says “That’s like us isn’t it mummy?” I blink back the tears and agree “Yes sweetheart, that’s like us”. She decides it is now ‘our song’ (apparently ‘You Are My Sunshine’ is too “babyish” now). And we sing together “just the two of us, building castles in the sky, just the two of us, we can make it if we try” until she falls asleep in my arms.

I stroke her hair, my tears falling on her beautifully innocent little face. It really is just the two of us. And who better to build castles in the sky with than a child who still believes that anything is possible?

It’s 3am. His arm rests heavily across my waist. I clench and unclench my buttocks yet again. My stomach is starting to cramp. What I am doing is totally unnatural.

A sharp pain shoots through my groin. It’s time to admit defeat. I gently move his arm and get out of the bed. I head for the bathroom. Then realise that it is too close to the bedroom.

I walk quickly (in a most peculiar bum clenching fashion) to the living room. Close the door. Move towards the window. Open it. And let out a long (and very loud) fart.

I would never have had those bloody onions on the pizza if I had known that I was going to end up in bed with Anthony.

I’m wafting it towards the window when I notice the light flashing on the answer phone. It’s my mother “Kitty, it’s your mother”. She always starts her messages with that superfluous statement.

I turn the volume down. My mother never talks. She shouts. “We haven’t heard from you today and we’re worried. Phone me as soon as you get this message.”

I can hear the rattle of the phone as she tries to hang up then she carries on talking (to my father) “Of course she isn’t home, Mia is with her father so she is probably out doing god-knows-what-with -god-knows-who. If only she hadn’t left her husband. Mark was a good man” She lets out a big sigh “I miss him”.

Then she is distracted by one of those awful Turkish soaps that she is addicted to. “Ooh, has he found out that his- lover- is- actually- his- long- lost- sister- and- his- wife- is -her -mother -and –that- his- son -has been- having- sex- with- his- auntie, yet?”

My mother has selective amnesia. She will have conveniently forgotten her initial reaction to Mark; we were in her kitchen when I finally plucked up the courage to blurt out “I’m engaged!” (they didn’t even know I had a boyfriend).

She immediately (and very dramatically) collapsed into a chair before exclaiming “Oh my god! He is English, isn’t he?” in the same tone you would adopt to say “Oh my God! He is a blood sucking, flesh eating, kitten drowning, psychopathic paedophile, isn’t he?”

My grandmother took to her bed wailing “Aman AllahIm” (“Oh my god”) over and over again. And my father demanded that I summon him to the house immediately.

My mother answered the door, took one look at him, burst into tears and ran off crying “He is blond, we can’t even pass him off as Turkish”. My grandmother’s wailing got louder (and louder).

My father led Mark into the guest room where he had arranged three chairs, interrogation style, in the middle of the room.

Mark was made to sit opposite my parents (the chairs were so close that their knees almost touched). My father fired question after question at him while my mother simply wept loudly in his face.

After at least an hour of this my father asked him the final question "Do you love my daughter?" to which Mark responded, "With all due respect sir, would I put myself through this if I didn’t?"My father allowed himself a little smile.

And I allowed myself a little sigh of relief as I watched through the crack in the door. I had been rebelling against my upbringing ever since I ate my first packet of bacon flavour crisps at the age of eight. But I still cared a great deal about what my parents thought. Although I only (consciously) realised that when I was looking death in the face;

It was a lesbian friend’s birthday (I only mention her sexuality because it becomes relevant later in the story) and we were celebrating it in Brighton. It was late by the time we finally stumbled out of the club. Totally off our heads. And decided to go home with someone we had only just met. There were seven of us so it felt safe (and the first train wasn’t for another two hours).

It quickly became apparent that all was not right with our gracious host. His behaviour was odd. He made random religious statements. And he was jumpy.

We got to his flat to be greeted by a very skinny, nervous cat. That alone should have tipped us off. But it was cold outside and the flat was warm. So we continued to dismiss sign after sign.

Until he suddenly got up and went over to the cabinet. He took out a bottle of pills and popped a few. Then he took out a gun. Yes, a fucking gun. He sat down cross legged next to me and started rocking back and forth with his finger on the trigger.

His face got redder and redder as his rocking became more and more frantic. He was mumbling incoherently. I was the closest to him so I would be the first to go. You expect your life to flash before your eyes at a moment like that. You’re supposed to think of all the things that you won’t live to see. The children you’ll never have. The countries you’ll never visit.

Do you know what was going through my mind the moment I realised that I was probably going to die? "Oh fuck, Mum and Dad will go ballistic. I’m going to be found dead in a house full of gay people and drugs"

Yes. That is how deep it goes. So the fact that I love Anthony is only half the battle. An Englishman was bad enough. But would they ever come to terms with a Greek? I suppose it’s not entirely impossible. They did grow to love Mark.

It wouldn’t be easy but I am (sort of) confident that they would eventually come to accept Anthony. I’m actually thinking about this in serious terms. It can only mean one thing. Three years on from the divorce and I think I am finally ready to commit again.

I let out one last fart. Close the window. And go back to bed. I feel a sense of calm (and not just because I no longer have trapped wind). I snuggle up to him. I feel happy. Warm. Secure. Anthony sleepily wraps his body around mine and whispers “I love you Maria”. I freeze. Who the fuck is Maria?

I am (gently) shaken awake at London Bridge. I’m totally disorientated. And I think I’ve been dribbling. It takes a minute or so to remember where I am.

Apparently the train is being terminated here because of a ‘technical fault’. I stumble off and squint at the board. The next train has been cancelled. I now have a fifty minute wait.

I am hung-over. I still have a painful lump on my forehead. I slept in these clothes. I am wearing what is left of yesterday’s make up. My hair is a mess. Everything is a little blurred without my contacts. I feel dizzy.

All I want to do is go home. Not hang around here freezing my arse off. I am (unsurprisingly) in a really foul mood.

I march up to a railway employee and ask him why my train has been cancelled. He gives me a funny look (I clearly look like the morning after the night before). I roll my eyes and impatiently repeat the question. He shrugs, says “I don’t know” and tries to walk away.

I’m not having that. I pull at his arm and tell him that he is being very rude. And that it is his job to know.

He tries to speak but I won’t let him. I keep a firm grip of his arm in case he attempts to walk away again. I am determined to have my say. Fares go up every year yet the service gets worse. Commuters are effectively held to ransom.

People are milling around and nodding in agreement with me. I like an audience. I get into my stride, delivering an impromptu yet eloquent speech highlighting the deficiencies of our railway system.

Then I let go of his arm and say “Right. I’m finished. You may speak now. What have you got to say?” He smiles, points to a (very small) royal mail emblem on his jacket and says “I’m a postman”. Oh. “Yes, well.......your uniforms are too bloody similar” is the best I can manage before I hastily walk off to (quietly) wait for my train.

I get home, have a bath and wait for the pizza to arrive. I need comfort food. The doorbell rings. I open the door. It’s Anthony. I am wearing big fluffy dog slippers (present from my daughter, Mia). Unflattering striped boxers (that he had left behind two years ago). And a hideous but cosy fluffy leopard print top (present from the parents).

I close the door. Kick the slippers off and rush around like a whirling dervish. Get changed. Put make up on. Smooth hair down.

I open the door again. It suddenly occurs to me that he may not be there. But he is. He says he preferred my ‘eclectic’ look. And that his boxers suit me. He knows I kept them. And that I still wear them. How embarrassing.

He asks me why I left without saying goodbye. I offer him tea. I have to busy myself doing something. I don’t want to have this conversation. Not yet. Not now. I haven’t had time to think.

I need to intellectualise, rationalise and analyse. I can’t just have an ad hoc conversation led by emotion. That would be a disaster.

Thankfully my phone rings. I answer it immediately. It’s my neighbour, Alison. She sounds upset. And she is in urgent need of legal advice (I was a lawyer in a previous life). Perfect. I excuse myself and go next door.

Alison is a devout born again Christian who has abstained from alcohol for twenty years. She is on her second bottle of wine when I arrive. And seemingly intent on revealing every intimate detail of her unhappy marriage to me. Details I would really rather not be privy to.

I interrupt her with a reminder about needing legal advice. She says she wants a divorce. Not really my area (at least not professionally). I write down the name of a firm that specialises in family law. She thanks me. Then lifts her top up and tearfully asks “Do you think I have nice breasts?” This is getting a little too weird for me.

I have to make a quick call on which is the lesser of two evils; going back and having an unscripted conversation with Anthony or staying here and witnessing her descent into alcohol induced hysteria. All twenty pent up years of it. Not to mention the possibility of more random nudity. Decision made. I assure her that they are lovely as I am backing out of the door.

I go back to Anthony, gently kiss him, whisper “I’m sober now, make love to me” and lead him towards the bedroom. He doesn’t protest. Genius. I not only avoid talking, I get to have great sex. But there is one fundamental flaw in my brilliant plan. I still have hairy legs. And a knicker beard.

I tell him I need to ‘de-fuzz’ first. He laughs, “I love you, you mad Turk” then he scoops me up in his big manly arms and his tone becomes serious “I have waited a long time to be with you again and I’m not waiting a second longer”.

We kiss as he carries me into the bedroom. I am swept away by the romance of it all. I swear I can hear music playing in the distance.

Then he trips over one of my hastily discarded doggy slippers and we land in an unruly heap on the bed. We look at each other before bursting into simultaneous laughter. And that one moment confirms it for me. I do still love him.

He looks gorgeous. I must try my best to be cool. I still have time to convince him of my sanity. I casually reverse the car off the ticket machine, put the handbrake on and get out of the car.

I have perfected the art of styling it out. One simply acts as if everything is perfectly normal. People rarely question anything that is done with both confidence and conviction. Even with a throbbing, pulsating, neon lump on ones’ forehead.

I give him a warm hug, slip my arm through his and suggest pre-dinner drinks. Vodka will work just as well in the absence of traditional painkillers. I am nothing if not resourceful.

Several neat shots later and my head is feeling much better. Then I notice that the waitress is paying him too much attention. I ask her a direct question. She looks at him while answering me. I do this a few times just to confirm my suspicions.

Ok. I know that I am having dinner with a friend (who happens to be an ex) but she doesn’t know that. Therefore flirting with him is very disrespectful.

The final straw comes when she leans forward, flicks her hair ‘L’Oreal’ style (no love, you’re actually not worth it) and suggestively asks him, "is there anything else I can do for you?"

This really is too much. He waves her away dismissively and takes my hands in his across the table. I’m not sure if this is a romantic gesture or one intended to restrain me.

If it is the latter, then he has failed to take into account that my legs are still free. I uncross them and kick one out as she is walking past. I connect, considerably harder than I meant to.

She yelps. I smile as I say “Gosh, I’m so sorry”. Our eyes meet and we have that unspoken exchange that women are so good at (and men are totally oblivious to).

She correctly interprets my ‘back off bitch’ expression and hobbles off.

Anthony frowns at me “you did that on purpose didn’t you?”

“Yes” I say proudly, “I did”. I take another gulp of wine. My head has stopped throbbing. But I am starting to develop double vision.

I start drinking water. I am clearly unfit to drive. Anthony suggests I go home with him.

I decide on the way back that I am going to sleep with him. Then I remember Plan B. I deliberately didn’t shave my legs or my bikini line just in case Plan A (drive so I won’t drink and end up back at his place) failed.

I am always a couple of steps ahead of myself. Sometimes I don’t like being such a smartarse.

I knew I would never sleep with him if I had prickly legs and a knicker beard. Unless I can have a quick shave at his place. I’ll outwit the smug sensible sober me yet. I excuse myself as soon as we get inside and disappear into the bathroom.

Where is his razor? It must be in the cabinet. I start emptying it out like a woman possessed. How many bloody beauty products does one man need? There has to be a razor in here somewhere.

Then I’m distracted by his haemorrhoid cream. I remember reading somewhere that it is really good for under eye bags and dark circles. I’ve been meaning to try it for some time but didn’t want to be seen buying it.

I squeeze a little out of the tube and wipe it away with tissue. Just in case he has been applying it directly.

I squeeze out a bit more and dab it under my eyes. No visible difference. It just looks greasy. I lean forward to dab on some more when I spot the electric shaver on the wall next to the mirror. I slip out of my jeans.

Anthony knocks on the door “Are you ok in there?”

I shout back “I’m fine" then “do you have any shaving cream?”

He walks in. I watch as he takes in the scene before him. The entire contents of his bathroom cabinet are strewn all over the floor. I’m standing, half-naked, on tip-toes with one leg hoisted up into the sink holding his shaver in one hand and the haemorrhoid cream in the other.

"I forgot to shave my legs" I offer by way of explanation ‘"And you have to do it now? Why?""‘Because", I pause for dramatic effect “I have decided that I’m going to have sex with you!” – I say this in the excited manner of a game show host announcing the lucky winner.

He doesn’t look remotely interested. He comes over and helps me get my leg down from the sink. He takes the shaver and the cream out of my hands and says "You can have the bed. I’ll take the sofa".

I’m confused and more than a little humiliated. This is the first time a man has turned me down. Not because I’m irresistible but because men do not turn down sex. Ever.

I ask him to call me a cab. He firmly suggests I ‘just get some sleep’. I ask him why he doesn’t want to have sex with me. He says that he would love to have sex with me but not when I’m drunk.

"Don't give me that shit! if you're not attracted to me anymore then just say so! ".

I am about to continue my rant when he silences me with "I love you a lot more than I realised. It has taken me a long time to admit that to myself. And I would prefer you to be sober when we make love. Is that so unreasonable?" I shake my head and whisper ‘no’.

Then my eyes involuntarily start to water. He strokes my hair while I cry silently on his shoulder. He spoons me (fully clothed) all night.

I wake up in the morning with a pounding hangover. And the slow, awful realisation that I made a complete and utter arse of myself.

Then I remember what he said to me. I gently move away from him and out of the bed. I don’t want to be here when he wakes up. I wouldn’t know what to say.

I sit on the train feeling sick. And not just because of the alcohol swimming around in my body. I think I still love him. This could actually work. So why do I want to run for the hills?

I am about to do something I have never done before.

I tell the woman that it’s my first time and ask her to recommend a suitable prep cream. I strip off and vigorously rub it all over my face and body. I feel a slight tingle at first. And I look a bit flushed. I feel a little hot.

Then my face goes bright red. I watch as the redness spreads with indecent haste across my body. I feel really hot. My skin is burning. I’m on fucking fire!

My heart is racing. I feel dizzy. I must be having some kind of extreme allergic reaction; like those poor women who burn their heads with hair dye. Except this isn’t my head. It’s my face and my entire (and I mean entire) body.

I’ve probably got third degree burns. I’ll be disfigured for life. What the hell was I thinking? Why did I want a tan? I’ve got olive skin for Christ’s sake! I’m starting to hyperventilate.

I grab a towel and run into reception screaming. She narrows her eyes and peers at me,

“Oooh, what happened to you? You’re bright red”

I am also hysterical.

“No shit Sherlock! My skin is fucking burning! Call an ambulance! Now!”

I’m frantically waving the bottle of cream around as I speak. She takes it out of my hand and looks at it. Apparently I have used a very strong ‘tingle’ cream.

It works by bringing all the blood to the surface so that you tan faster. I can’t believe people do this shit knowingly. Then expose their bodies to the extreme heat of a sun bed.

I grab the bottle to see for myself. It is for use only by ‘experienced tanners’. And it is supposed to be used ‘sparingly’. I slapped on half the bottle.

The burning feeling isn’t as intense. I start to calm down. My awareness increases as my adrenalin levels decrease. I become aware that I have attempted to wrap myself in a tiny towel that doesn’t quite cover my Mediterranean bottom.

Then I remember that the cafe area is directly behind me. I turn around slowly. Please let it be empty. Please. Please. Please.

Damn it! Why are there so many people at the gym on a Saturday? And why are they all staring at me?

Ok. I admit that’s a stupid question - I am half naked and lobster red. And I ran into reception screaming like a banshee. That is why they are staring at me.

All I can do now is try to style it out. I tug at the towel in a pointless attempt to make it meet across my bottom. I muster as much dignity as the situation will allow. Then I stick my nose in the air and walk off slowly in a calm fashion.

I have a cold shower before I take issue with the lady who gave me the cream. Yes. I know. I should have read the back of the bottle. But she should have warned me. Especially as I told her it was my first time.

The manager offers me a free facial by way of compensation. I opt for the most expensive one. I deserve it. I was traumatised.

The redness has subsided and the facial has ensured that I have a natural healthy glow as I set off for my (non) date with Anthony.

I park my car, take my seatbelt off and bend down to swap my flats for heels. I haven’t driven in heels ever since I drove into a bus stop and wrote off my previous car.

I must stress that I didn’t drive into it because of my heels. I drove into it because I was so deep in thought that I (momentarily) forgot I was driving. The heels just made it difficult to slam on the brakes once I remembered.

As I sit back up, I notice that the car next to me is moving backwards. But it’s empty. I’m fascinated. How is that possible? I’m still trying to work it out when I’m thrown back by the impact of my car rolling forward into the ticket machine.

Balls! I forgot to put my handbrake on. I was the one moving. I realise this just as my head is coming forward (with force) on to the steering wheel.

It occurs to me that perhaps my life would be simpler if I wasn’t always looking for the deeper explanation.

I check my reflection in the mirror. I have a large bump on my forehead. I look like a bloody unicorn.

I’ll wait in the car until it goes down. I hate being late but I can’t turn up looking like this. I send him a ‘stuck in traffic’ text.

Then I hear a tapping on my window. It’s Anthony. And he has that look of genuine concern on his face again.

My plan to convince him that I am not, in actual fact, a total head case suddenly seems somewhat futile...