Let’s start with the previous men in my life:
One of my first boyfriends was a chap by the name of Neville. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he was nice. Sweet. Treated me like his little princess. We met one sunny afternoon in Stratford. We walked for hours, talked for ages, and that was us, joint at the hip, for a majority of the following three years. Our relationship, which had been a rather big secret – much to his disgust – fizzled out when my parents made sure that I was never to receive another letter from him once he was sentenced for car theft. A Mercedes-Benz, no less. Some people have no taste. (more…)