“Dannii, Dannii, Dannii,” he pleads into the mobile clamped to his left ear. “I know you’re upset because you’ve got the Over 25s and you wanted the boys. But look at it this way, at least you didn’t get the groups like Louis. He’s really ticked off.”

And with that he begins to laugh so hard that the bed begins to jiggle up and down and my head starts to ricochet against the headboard. I can hear Ms Minogue giggling at the other end.

“Look, I’ve some business to finish here but that won’t take long. I’ll be round at your hotel within the hour and we can have a chat. Maybe a bite? Where are you? The Dorchester as per usual?”

Business to finish! Won’t take long! I am incandescent with rage. I wriggle free from underneath him and sit up, letting out a giant-sized huff of indignation, only to find I am on the sofa. Alone. I must have nodded off and fallen into a deep slumber. But I do not believe this. Even the men in my dreams have lost interest in me. Typical.

All I have done today is mooch listlessly around the house. His Lordship has agreed to stay away (chez trollop to be exact) until I have packed up my things and left for Florida.

“It’s a good offer,” he had told me as he outlined his plans to buy out my half of Honeysuckle Cottage. I have to admit that financially he is being fair. Guilt, no doubt. I run a bath and while the hot water is pumping into the tub, I decide the time has finally come. Mouth dry as week-old bread and legs trembling, I stand before the I-don’t-pull-any-punches bedroom mirror and slowly and steadfastly, peel off my clothes, one item at a time.

“Face up to those demons,” says a stern voice inside my head. (Actually it’s sounds unnervingly like my mother’s and I wonder if perhaps I my crime has been not just to neglect my man but to neglect myself too?)  Taking a deep breath, I stare resolutely at the image before me. I remember reading somewhere that you should always concentrate on your strengths, big-up your plus points, rather than dwell on the negative so I look at the shape reflected back at me and announce to the space around me: “I am quite good a parallel parking.”

Seconds pass by, perhaps minutes, and I am relieved to find that Gok Wan hasn’t somehow clambered through the bedroom window to announce that he intends to drape me over a G Plan dining suite in Debenham’s window stark naked and expect me to be happy about it. Why do people agree to be bullied into appearing on national television in the buff? Perhaps they are drugged up beforehand? Okay, so the coat-hanger hips are gone. But the figure looking back at me is acceptable. That’s to say I don’t think I would be at any risk of being pelted to death with pebbles should I dare to turn out on Filey beach in a bikini. I wish I was taller than my present five feet six. I certainly wish I had bigger breasts but petite does mean pert and not saggy thank God. And I’m heartened to see that my legs are not half bad. They are not pillars of lard at any rate. Not yet. I had convinced myself that some hideously-deformed shape would be reflected. One in dire need of a strenuous work-out at the gym and or even some serious attention by Harley Street’s finest. True, a bikini wax is a little overdue but it’s hardly a case for a Flymo cordless strimmer. So I suppose I am a little relieved. But at the same time I come to the uncomfortable conclusion: whatever I have and whoever I am is not enough for His Lordship.

Delia rings me as I am bashing out a feature about a man who reckons he has the world’s largest collection of wooden soldiers – all of them  whittled by his own fair hand. I have just spent two hours in his grubby house watching him at work and trying to ask him intelligent questions.

“They’re not master carvings. In fact some people might think they’re a bit crude,” he said.

“Some people might think you are crude,” I was sorely tempted to answer as I cast my eyes over a shelf-ful of porn videos. Judging by the state of its cover, Bang, Bang, Titty, Titty, Bang, Bang seemed to be very popular.”

“Veronica, ” gasps Delia. “Can you meet me in Supasave? I’m in the manager’s office.”

I grab my coat and bag and slink out of  the newsroom, before Candida has chance to give me a hard time. Delia looks flustered as I walk into a poky, little office, where store manager (Darren, his name badge reads) is sitting stony-faced behind his desk. There are bits of green gungey stuff spattered down the front of his blue, nylon overall. There is a particularly large chunk of it clinging to his greasy hair.

“Your friend,” he says sternly,  “has assaulted me. I am afraid this supermarket operates a strict anti-violence policy towards its staff. Therefore I have had no alternative but to call the police. They are on their way.”

“What happened?” I ask, perplexed.

“This snivelling little tosser has accused me of man-handling his avocados,” says Delia .

“Excuse me madam,” interrupts Darren. “But as I explained to you earlier, this store also operates a strict no-fondling policy for our fruit and vegetables.”

“I observed your friend,” he says, turning to me,   “handling the avocados with unnecessary force. I did request that she stop but at that point she became quite abusive, calling me a variety of names and advising me what I could do with the avocados before throwing one of them at me. ”

That explains the green gungey stuff, I realise.

“I was merely attempting to find two ripe ones suitable to make a guacamole dip. I take it that you actually know what guacamole is,” says Delia, her voice sounding as icy as the frozen foods’ section.

It is at this point that two police officers walk into Darren’s office and start to advise Delia of her legal rights.

“Call Mike,” she hisses to me as one officer produces a pair of hand cuffs. “Tell him to get his arse over here quick.”

“Hi mum,” I say to the voice at the other end. “It’s me. Just thought I’d better bring you up to date with what’s been happening.

“Oh my giddy aunt,” says my mother. “You’re pregnant!”

Why does she do this? Why does my mother insist of finishing my sentences for me? And always getting them wrong.

“You’re pregnant at last and it’s twins! I knew George would manage it eventually.”

“No, mum, I’m not pregnant,” I say, trying to conceal the irritation in my voice. “Actually George and I are not together anymore.”

“Why? What have you done?”

I do not believe this. Why should my own mother assume I am the one at fault?

“Veronica you should know by now that to keep a man you have to keep him interested in the, well, in the bedroom department. Your father and I, well, it’s not easy after all these years you know and now and again I have to resort to a bit of, well,  jiggery pokery, if you get my drift. The odd bit of lacy lingerie, a bit of interesting reading, the odd toy. Sometimes . . .”

“Mummmmmm!” I shriek cutting her short. “Pleaaaaaaaaaaaase!”

Oh my God, my mother shops at Ann Summers. Why is she not a member of the Women’s Institute, making jam, like other women of her age? The world has gone mad. Today we carried a story about a youth who helped a pensioner at a bus stop when she fell over. He picked her up and called for an ambulance. Why is this news? Surely this is the natural course of action to take? But maybe this is unusual? Maybe it would have been the expected thing for him to urinate on her and then set her alight? I explain patiently to my mother all about His Lordship and his philandering.

“Never trust a man with a low sperm count,” she says, sounding marginally more sympathetic.

“I have decided to get away for a bit,” I say.

“Oh I’m sorry Veronica, but there’s no space here I’m afraid.”

“Actually I wasn’t thinking of flying out to Spain. And anyway if I was, you have five bedrooms. How can you not have room?”

“People, darling. People. We’ve a houseful.”

“Who?” I ask, feeling rejected and hurt.

“Well Eminem for a start,” my mother says.

Now the world really is going mad. Are my parents entertaining the chart-topping American rapper?

“Eminem?” I repeat slowly.

“Yes darling. M and M – Marjorie and Maurice,” says my mother slowly as if speaking to a half-wit.

“You know Marjorie and Maurice!” she adds with emphasis.

This is another of my mother’s annoying habits.. She insists I know people I don’t and still carries on talking about them when I tell her I have never heard of them.

“You do know Marjorie! Big in the flower club. Daughter called  Rosemary, who’s a lesbian. Isn’t that exciting? Maybe you could give it a go?”

“Give it a go? Mum, you know if you’re a lesbian or not. You don’t give a go like you would salsa dancing or skate-boarding.”

“Yes, darling, but you don’t want to become known as one of those women who can’t keep a man. Anyway you do know Marjorie. Had a bit of trouble in the downstairs department, once embarrassed herself terribly in Tesco’s bakery section but then she started Pilates and well, now she’s as tight as a drum. She can do star jumps with confidence. Maurice has started a two-week gouache course run by your father. He was stressed to the gills when he first came out here, it was untrue. Hounded by the press, darling. It was terrible. Nearly had a nervous breakdown.”

“Hounded by the press?” I ask puzzled. “What press?”

“That scurrilous newspaper of yours. It almost ruined his life.”

“He was appearing as Professor Higgins in the Thespians’ production of My Fair Lady and your reviewer wrote that his cardigan had more stage presence, and that if Eliza needed elocution, then he needed electrocution to inject some life into him. Very cruel.”

“It’s a review, mum. It wasn’t as if he was exposed on the front page of the News Of The World snorting cocaine with a bevy of lap dancers.”

“Well he might just as well have been. His theatrical career is in tatters.”

Somehow I manage to stem my mother’s conversation long enough to explain all about the new job.

Well you will come out and see us in June, won’t you darling? Ruby Wedding celebrations and all that. Your father and I are very excited in fact we’re giving each other special presents.”

A feeling of foreboding comes over me.

“What?” I ask, nervously.

“Well, your father is getting a piercing.” My mother starts to giggle.

“I think it’s called a prince . . . “

But I do not let her finish the sentence.

“Bye mum,” I say in a rush before hanging up. The floor seems to be coming up to meet me and suddenly I feel as giddy as anyone’s aunt.

Strangely, Candida did not seem too distressed when I handed her the white envelope containing my resignation. That might have been because she had her tongue down Byron’s throat at the time. The pair of them were in the library in the Pictures-General section, with Candida pushed up against the Old People to Zoos category. I noticed someone had written “and quite right too” underneath the lettering.

“Oh just leave it there, Veronica,” she barked. “Can’t you see that I’m busy?”

“It is almost a week,” I tell him. “Since George told me he no longer loves me.” I recall the meeting. Brutal, short and very to the point. His Lordship used phrases such as “I can’t live without her” and “she is my life” while mine were more along the lines of “I hope you get VD and your dick drops off.” Nearly a whole week has passed in a tear-stained blurry mess with Candida being snotty about the standard of my work (I would like to see her make sense of an interview involving a lap dancer, two lesbians and a lollipop lady and not get someone mixed up, if her heart was broken.

“Please stop being so sad. If you continue like this, I will be forced to make love to you,” says Ben. I burst out laughing.

“Under The Tuscan Sun,” I say. “Martini says it to Frances. I love that film.”

“Me too,” replies Ben. He tells me he is leaving the Herald (so I start to cry again) and that he is going back to California to work for a new travel magazine.  “But,” he says, grasping my hands. “This is the best part, so listen carefully.”

The confirmation email has just landed when “ding-dong” the doorbell chimes. I open the door and seconds later know am gawping like a stunned trout because I can feel my jaw drop towards my knees. The nerve of it is the trollop Victoria Sponge herself. Before I can say: “Fuck off bitch”, she bustles past me and is soon keeping company with the hall coat-stand. The very nerve of it! I take in the sight before me and notice that she is wearing a tight, baby pink sweater which is straining over her very buoyant and ample breasts. A short, clingy skirt completes the tacky outfit. Really, teachers do not dress as they used to. I also notice with some satisfaction that her face is slathered in Satsuma coloured foundation which makes her look like one of Willy Wonka’s Oompa Lumpas. 

“Gah . . “  I manage to say. Damn it. Why, when I need it most, does the power of speech desert me? Why do I sound like some incoherent village idiot when I am in dire need of wit and clever rhetoric in order to win the upper hand here? I open my mouth again. “Wha?” is all that I manage this time and, like a predator stalking its prey and sensing the weakness of its opponent, the Victoria Sponge strikes.

“Let’s not mess about,” she says.

Mess about? Is she being ironic here? What does she think she has been doing with His Lordship for the past goodness knows how long?

“We need to talk and I don’t trust George to give it to you straight.”

Is she doing this  deliberately? She is coming out with more double entendres than a Carry On film. I want to say: “Well the last time I saw George he was definitely giving it to you straight – on my Nan’s quilt you whore” but all I manage is “Bah.”

“He is leaving you for me. It’s as simple as that. We love each other. We want to be together. What more can I say?”

What more indeed, I think as I scurry after her as she makes for the kitchen, her spiky heels click-clacking on the tiles.  Bitch, tart, trollop, whore . . . bitch, tart, trollop whore. Yes, that’s definitely the sound they are making.

“Just so you know, we didn’t plan any of this. It just happened. Sometimes these things do. Sometimes people are just meant to be together. It’s karma, Veronica and you just can’t fight it.”

“Didn’t plan it?” I screech. Hurrah the power of speech has returned at last.

“Didn’t plan it? Didn’t plan it? Oh that makes it alright then. Of course you didn’t plan it you . . . you loose-moralled, inferior sponge cake-baker. You plan a holiday or a new herbaceous border or even a day out. You don’t plan an affair. Not unless you’re a heartless harlot!” Oh goody goody, lots of words are tumbling out of my mouth now.

“And what in the name of the holy heavens has karma, as you call it, got to do with it? You knew George had someone else. Me! You knew all about me. What about self-respect and what about restraint?  You could have left Gordon alone! YOU COULD HAVE KEPT YOUR KNICKERS ON YOU SLAG!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

I look beyond the Victoria Sponge and through the kitchen window and notice that both Mr and Mrs Meadows are standing at the hedge and are looking concerned. Mrs Meadows is holding a rolling-pin aloft like a potential weapon. Back up is at hand should things turn nasty. I am shaking and suddenly become aware that I am holding out my arms in front of me,  fists clenched as if I am ready to begin sparring. I wonder if I am about to hit her?

“Get out of my house. Get out of my house now” I scream, taking a step forward. The tangerine tinge from her fat face fades to a ghostly, white pallor.  She bolts from her position at the sink and once more click-clacks down the hall, scrabbling at the lock and eventually bursting through the door. I watch her retreating rear-end as she hot foots it to the car. There is a moment of euphoria when I notice she has chubby ankles but it is short-lived. I slam the door behind her, feeling emotionally drained. Then I lean against it, slump to my knees and sob for all I am worth.

His Lordship has made the bed but not properly. The cushions are all over the place. Why do men and cushions not mix? Unless of course the men are gay, then they have a natural flair with soft furnishings. The sight of Nan’s quilt makes me want to cry. When Nan died last year and mum and I were clearing the house this was one of the few things I asked for. This, a marcasite brooch with several stones missing and a book of children’s poetry which Nan used to read to me when I was little. I tug the quilt from the bed and roll it up, trying hard not to think about what bodily fluids could be on it.

“Filthy fuckers!! I don’t mean to shout but somehow it just explodes out of me. I rip off the sheets and pillowcases. These are definitely going in the bin.

My phone tinkles into life. It is a message from His Lordship. He is shopping and will be another hour. Shopping? The nerve of the man. He is probably spending his money on that trollop.
I make a cup of tea, switch on my laptop and pick up the post. Just two envelopes, one addressed to me – it is the new Jo Malone catalogue – and one addressed to His Lordship. I am sure it is a credit card. I know I shouldn’t but I open it. The time for respecting each other’s privacy is long gone, I reckon. I tear open the envelope. It is a credit card! Odd because in all the years I have known His Lordship he has never possessed one – deemed them an evil temptation. No doubt this is to be used for the domestic science strumpet. Well, we will see about that. I am just about to get the scissors and cut it into tiny pieces when a scrumptious idea begins to form in my head. It is brilliant! I look at the Jo Malone catalogue and then I look at the card. Kerching!

With the tap of a few keys, a delicious selection of creams, lotions, bath oils and scented candles are winging their way to me, courtesy of His Lordship’s new plastic friend. Mmm, wild fig and cassis. I swoon at the very thought of it. And then suddenly I begin to feel very generous, very generous indeed. I hit the “continue shopping” icon and before you can say “serves you right you cheating bastard”, a giant-sized bottle of Pomegranate Noir cologne is ordered for Delia (message: “You are the best friend in the world”) and a Vetyver gift box is picked for Mike (message: “Thanks for being great.”)

This is fun and I am in my stride now. I tap in the address details of Mr Meadows, who in a day or two will find himself the lucky (and probably puzzled) recipient of a large bottle of Lime, Basil and Mandarin cologne (which hopefully will be an improvement on his usual odour of eau de grow-bag. Message: “No one has plums as magnificent as yours.” Of course, I don’t forget Mrs M. “Thanks for the shepherd’s pie” reads the message on her Ginger and Nutmeg bath oil.

Now who next, I wonder? But I don’t wonder for long because inspiration descends like a light summer’s rain falling on Bert Meadows’ perfectly manicured lawn. I don’t know the Victoria Sponge’s home address but I can send something to school, to the staff room, can’t I? That way, with a bit of luck, she’ll have an audience when she opens the package. I choose carefully and eventually settle on White Nectarine and Honey Nourishing Face Mask and a Vitamin E Body Treatment Scrub. Message: “Thought these would help with the wrinkles and the cellulite. Love, George.”

Terrific. I am obviously the topic of discussion at the local allotment society along with prize onion-growing and tomato fertilizer. Maybe there’ll even be an announcement in next month’s parish magazine – Enid Meadows is afterall, community correspondent. In fact she is probably phoning the copy over right this minutes. Maybe on Sunday the congregation will be asked to pray for our souls – well His Lordship’s at least.

I seize the shepherd’s pie, mumble a begrudging thank you and am about to head inside when Mr Meadows speaks again.

“Yer know, tha deserves better than ‘im, lass. Just wanted to tell ‘ee. Bit like moss on yer lawn, nothing but a bloody nuisance. Only one thing for it. ‘as to be exterminated.”

I stare at him dumbly. Does he have connections? Does he belong to some kind of local Cosa Nostra? Perhaps he is the Allotments Godfather, hacking off people’s prize marrows and putting them in their beds if they cross him.

“Thank you, Mr Meadows,” I smile weakly. “And thank you for the Shepherd’s pie.” I hurry into the house and shut the door.

“ARE you sure you’ll be alright facing him alone?” asks Delia looking teary.

“Absolutely. He might be a womanising tosser who can’t keep his todger in his trousers but he’s not a wife-beater. And anyway I’m not his wife.” I try to sound jolly but I know I am fooling no-one. Least of all myself.

“Well if he does cause trouble, Mike will sort it. He has some pretty dodgy contacts from his court days you know. He could get someone to fit him up with a wooden overcoat.”

“I think you mean concrete,” I say before giving her a hug and heading to the car.

I brace myself as I open the car door so as not to gag. I try to hold my breath but it is impractical and by the first set of traffic lights I have my head out of the window again, gasping for air.

Despite Delia’s protestations I realise I cannot hide away forever so tomorrow is the day I will return to Nettleton Avenue, scene of the crime.

His Lordship is heading to the Lake District on a week-long geography field trip and thinks we should “touch base” before he goes. Argh!! I hate phrases such as “touch base” or “blue-sky thinking” or “find a window” or “thinking outside the box.” Who invented them – and why? What is wrong with normal words and phrases?

As a “farewell dinner” Delia has done Delia (of the Smith variety) and produces a succulent leg of lamb, slow-cooked in a whole bottle of Beaujolais. I am devouring the last mouth-watering forkful with relish when it happens.

“What a fuck-up,” says Delia, leaning back in her chair and taking a slug from her wine glass. “George is a cheating dick-head.” Mike is about to speak when Delia breaks in again.

 “Mike, I swear to God if you ever screwed around, I’d have your cock for a coq au vin, I’d cut off your sodding balls and force-feed them to you, I bloody would.”

She then clears away the plates before announcing: “Apple crumble anyone?”.

Later, I am packing my things into my bag when Mike knocks on the bedroom door. He is looking anxious.

“About Delia,” he says. Do you think it is worth a word with the doctor?”