I never bought into the nonsense that sex was in any way tied up with responsibility, disgrace, doubt, guilt or even love. As far as I was concerned sex was all about hedonistic pleasure and fun – lots and lots of fun. I suppose sexist propaganda would have it that I ought to hang my head in shame, wear sackcloth and frequently beat myself rather than own up to the fact that in my past I’ve rarely dignified any relationship with longevity. But I won’t. I can’t be that much of a hypocrite.

Then there was Adam.

I met Adam in the same way I usually met guys back then (he was the mate of a bloke I was shagging at the time). It wasn’t love at first sight or anything really corny like that – it was laugh at first sight. Not that I was

I never so much as looked at another man from that moment on. Seriously, he held me captive. I realized that I hadn’t simply been a slut (as I believed and my mum feared), I just hadn’t met the right guy. Simple as that. As nice and old-fashioned as that.

I’ve loved being faithful to Adam. It hasn’t been a struggle. Having sown my wild oats it was a joy to sink into a relationship where it really didn’t matter if I occasionally wore cotton M&S knickers rather than lacy thongs – he’d still want to rip them off me.

Adam and I laughed our way through the first couple of years and we laughed our way into this flat-share and for quite some months after that. But we haven’t been doing a great deal of laughing of late. In fact there hasn’t been so much as a chuckle, a guffaw or a weak giggle. Neither of us is the rowing sort, so silence and tension have become our staple.

I call Adam to find out what time he expects to be back so I can gauge whether it’s worth waiting up for him. Even before I press the dial button part of me knows this is likely to be a pointless exercise. Invariably, even if Adam is able to give an expected time of arrival, he’s about as reliable as a politician a week before elections; besides that,