‘Can I offer you a drink?’ I never say yes to this question without first checking out the origin, however busy the bar is. I look up and see Mr Tall, Dark and Handsome. On cue. He is presumptuously holding a bottle of Bollie and a fistful of glasses. I like presumption, extravagance and the recognition that my friends will want a drink too. He has sparkling green eyes and the floppy-haired look that was all the rage when I was nineteen. I resist telling him that since Brideshead Revisited, no man (other than Hugh Grant) has ever successfully pulled off this look. I resist because besides the height, eyes and cheekbones, I like his suit.

‘Fine.’ I grin.

He does the usual stuff: he asks me my name, and I tell him it’s Cas and he says, ‘Oh, what’s Cas short for?’ And I explain it’s short for Jocasta and I grin and add, ‘I was named after my father’s mother, very Oedipal.’ And sometimes they get this reference and sometimes they don’t but it doesn’t matter because either way they grin maniacally. Because usually by this time the men I talk to are well and truly in lust with me. They may not be interested in references to Greek plays but they are extremely interested in the possibility of steamy foreplay. They are checking out my full, pert tits or my long, brown, muscular legs, depending on whether they are breast or leg men. And, if their tastes are more sophisticated and long, black, glossy hair, or clear skin, or slim hips, or blue eyes, or straight white teeth turn them on, I can offer all these things too.

Believe me, I know I’m blessed.

I wear my hair long, because it drives men wild. They look at me and see a sexy bitch or a nineteenth-century heroine, whichever is their bag. Strictly speaking, I think my personality would suit a razor-sharp, chin-length bob, but I work in television and ‘give them what they want’ is my war cry.