10 years ago today....

Mr Jones and I first became a couple. Well at this point actually we were still in denial that we were indeed a couple, but it didn't take us long to realise that we were more than just friends really. Ten years ago we were just starting to live the drama - now we're thankful for a more peaceful life.

I don't think back then we quite realised that there would be a house, two cats, a wedding or a baby - but then we were 21 and all we cared about was who was buying the next round (in Tim's case) and whether anyone had taken out the last copy of The Brontes by Juliette Barker from the library (in mine). [Note - I now have my own copy of this book - you'll be delighted to know that fact I'm sure.]

But here we are, after an eventful 10 years together. Through the happy times, testing times and downright sad times we've always managed to find time for a hug and a kiss goodnight. Yes I might nag and we may well drive each other up the wall sometimes, but that doesn't mean we don't love each other. So you'll forgive me for being soppy, but I love you Mr Jones, I can't imagine my life without you in it. I promise to love you forever, be with you always and never let you go.

Snake bite and slushes - a love story part 9 - the final installment

So Mr Jones and I loved each other. But uni days were coming to an end. We’d both be going home and although we didn’t live very far away, we’d only see each other and weekends. And of course Miss B lived where Mr Jones did.

The only thing we ever argued about was Miss B. I hated the fact that she didn’t know that Mr Jones and I were together. But he didn’t think she could handle the truth. I begged him time and again to tell her and get it over a done with. He steadfastly refused.

Uni ended in a whirl of exams, balls and street parties. Mr Jones and I stayed until the very end, eeking out our time together. The union put on a music festival and we sat in a damp field eating weird veggie curry, drinking snake bite and black (Mr Jones) and vodka slush (me) and watched the Dum Dums play their penultimate gig. We danced to Army of Two – completely unaware that eight and a half years later we’d be dancing to it on our wedding day.

Then we went home. I got a temping job and Mr Jones planned a trip around Europe with his friends. He was leaving on a Sunday in August and I was due to spend the Saturday night with him and wave him off the next day.

I woke up early that morning and switched on my mobile phone. Text after text started to arrive. Each one was full of expletives, accusations and vitriol. They were all from Miss B.

In a panic I tried to call Mr Jones – but it was about 6am and he didn’t answer. Some how Miss B knew about me and Mr Jones. I felt sick.

I finally got hold of him about two hours later. He’d been out with his friends the night before to say goodbye before his travels – he’d had a few drinks. Miss B had been out too and had been causing her usual trouble – asking him why they weren’t together and begging him to take her back. She’d insisted that she was coming to see him the next day to say goodbye before he left for Europe.

Mr Jones went to send me a text – it said something like this:

Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Miss B might be coming over at some point, but we’ll sort it. Love you lots xxx

The thing is, I never received it. Miss B’s name was next to mine in his address book – and he sent it to her.

Of course it did not go down well. What followed was by all accounts an almighty row. Mr Jones was screamed at until he told her everything. And I was sent a score of text messages and voicemails all of which blamed me for bewitching him.

Feeling utterly terrified I made my way to Mr Jones’ house. He was still going away and I still wanted to say goodbye. We were both bombarded with texts all day long until eventually his mum made us turn off our phones.

The next morning we were woken by a knock on the bedroom door. It was Mr Jones’ mum. “Um, Miss B is downstairs and she wants to speak to you,” she said to me.

I’d just woken up, my hair was all over the place and I looked a state. “I need a shower first,” I said. “I’ll be down in a minute.” I washed my hair and got dressed and made my way to the kitchen.

There she sat dressed in jeans and a baby pink hoodie. I was wearing black – the colour of all things evil. She glared at me.

“How could you? I can’t believe you lied to me. I can’t believe you stole my boyfriend. We’re supposed to be friends,” she spat.

“I wanted to tell you from the very beginning. I don’t like lying,” I said. “I didn’t steal him, we didn’t get together until after you’d split up. I never wanted to hurt you.”

“I don’t understand how you’ve done it, how have you turned him against me, just because your relationship was over it didn’t mean you had to ruin mine. I always worried that you two got on to well, but I never thought you’d do this to me…..”

“I haven’t turned him against you – you can’t help who you fall in love with. If he still loved you he’d still be with you.”

“Oh he still loves me. This is my family and you’ll never be part of it. We’re going to get married and be together forever. He doesn’t really want you he wants me,” she insisted.

“I’m not with him for his family, I love him for him, but ok, whatever you think – far be it from me to stand in the way – if he wants to go back to you that’s fine,” I said, realising that it was pointless to argue with her.

For the next 10 minutes we covered the same topics over and over again – how evil I was, the fact that Mr Jones still loved her, that I’d never take his family away from her, that they would get married one day and that I’d be left by the wayside. Mr Jones’ dad was stationed in the garden keeping an eye on us through the kitchen window in case things got nasty.

Once she’d had enough of shouting at me she sent me away and demanded that I send Mr Jones in to speak with her. I hated that she seemed to have all the power. I found Mr Jones with his mum and Miss B’s sister who had discovered her gone and followed her. She’d parked her car at the end of the drive to stop Miss B driving off in a rage. I thought this was all getting a bit too dramatic.

Mr Jones suffered a similar grilling in which he repeatedly told her that they wouldn’t be getting back together and that he loved me. Eventually she gave up. Mr Jones’ mum was dispatched to get me. Apparently Miss B wanted Mr M’s number. Reluctantly I sent him a text and asked him if it was ok if I gave it to her. He said it was. Handing that number over was one of my biggest mistakes.

You’ll remember that Mr M was rather apt at lying? He knew exactly what had happened and when between me and Mr Jones. He’d pretty much watched it all unfold. But when he spoke to Miss B that all seemed to slip his mind.

He told her that as far as he was concerned Mr Jones and I had been having an affair for months before that fateful New Year’s Eve kiss. That we’d cheated on them both time and again, making them look like fools. Of course this was what Miss B was desperate to hear – so she believed him – and to this day she still thinks that that is the truth.

Mr Jones left for Europe the next day – escaping the country for a month. I was left behind to deal with text after vitriolic text. I didn’t reply. To Miss B (and weirdly, to a lot of our "friends" and plenty of outsiders) this whole thing was my fault. Mr Jones was a seemingly innocent bystander. By some form of witch craft I had conjured him away and made him mine.

I was the adulteress who should have known better. I was the friend who had committed the ultimate betrayal. I was the other woman that you read about in books and magazines and hate because she’s ruined a relationship that to everyone on the outside seemed perfectly happy.

I will hold my hand up and say that I never thought I would betray a friend. I always thought friends would come first – but in truth, a friendship will never be a match for true love.

It is my firm belief that if your relationship is strong, and you truly love each other, you will never look anywhere else for love. It’s only when the relationship is broken and crumbling at the edges that eyes start to wander.

Miss B – if you ever read this please know that Mr Jones and I didn’t become a couple until we’d already decided that our previous relationships were over. We didn’t have an affair. I didn’t steal him and I never set out to hurt you. I can’t help that I fell in love with him and he fell in love with me.

None of our closest friends were shocked when we got together. Most people said it was about time. They’d seen for years what Mr Jones and I – and clearly Mr M and Miss B – had not seen. Two people who were meant to be together.

We’ve had our ups and downs. We lived apart for years – me in London, Mr Jones up here. I used to get mad at him for not calling me enough and he’d shout at me for being too clingy. But we knew we couldn’t be without each other.

All of this happened over nine years ago now and we’re still together and still in love. Mr Jones didn’t marry Miss B as she predicted, he married me instead. And now we’re awaiting the very imminent arrival of our first baby.

I cannot imagine my life without him in it. That New Year’s Eve kiss – although naughty – was one of the best things that has ever happened to me. If it hadn’t happened who knows where we’d be right now? I’m guessing we wouldn’t be as happy.

Snake bite and slushes - a love story part 7

It’s been a while – sorry – now where were we?

Oh yes - I retrieved my phone and sent Mr Jones a text – “Mr M knows!”
I have no idea what Mr Jones thought when he read this text and I can’t actually remember what he replied. No doubt it was a suitable mix of panic, terror and guilt. The next few days are a bit of a blur. I had to contend with living it what felt like the world’s smallest house with an understandably surly Mr M and endure hundreds and hundreds of conversations in which we discussed why I’d “run off”, “cheated”, “lied”.......

One day he asked me just what it was about Mr Jones that had made me choose him. Hundreds of reasons sprung up in my mind – he makes me laugh, he understands sarcasm, he lets me out on a Friday night, he’s handsome, he has charisma, he doesn’t make me cringe when he speaks, he loves a damn good argument and is more than happy to tell me to take a running jump if he doesn’t agree with me, he’s unpredictable and he doesn’t follow me around like a lost lamb. But I didn’t think it was wise to bring up any of these things. So I just said – “He has dark hair.” Mr M was blonde.

I’ve always had a thing about dark hair. For years and years the man of my dreams was strictly based on Gilbert Blythe from Anne of Green Gables. I was completely obsessed with Jonathan Crombie who played him in the screen version. Whenever I imagined getting married the groom was always dark haired and handsome. I dreamt of him taking me in a passionate embrace and promising me the world – while knowing exactly how to calm my red headed temper and impetuousness. Had I thought about it my relationship with Mr M was doomed from the outset – fickle as it sounds there was no way I’d have settled for a blonde.

Mr M had no answer for “He has dark hair” and I congratulated myself on the swift curtailing of yet another lengthy discussion about our relationship and its evident failings.

Two days later I was sat in an umcomfortable wooden chair at our dining room table working on an essay in my pyjamas. Mr M came home and sat for a few minutes in silence staring at me while I ignored him, hoping that he might just disappear. “I went to the hairdressers today,” he said.

“Oh right”

“I asked the girl in there if I could dye my hair brown and she said it was entirely possible.”

I looked up at him to see if this was some kind of joke. But he looked deadly serious. “You’re joking right?” I asked wondering whether I could get away with laughing.

“No, I just thought that if the only reason you’re going out with Mr Jones is because he has dark hair….” he trailed off – perhaps realising just how ridiculous he sounded. I didn’t know what to say. On the one hand I wanted to laugh, but on the other I just felt pity. After everything that had happened he still wanted me back – and was willing to dye his hair to get me.

“It’s not the only reason,” I said. “I’m sorry but our relationship is over and dying your hair won’t make any difference.”

While all this was going on Mr Jones and I were having a great time both together and apart. Released from the clutches of Miss B, Mr Jones no longer had to go home every weekend and I could finally go out with my girlfriends guilt free.

When Mr Jones and I appeared in public together there were a lot of whispers. Friends took sides and I was seen as the most immoral of all of us. But I didn’t really care – I completely understood that Mr M’s closest friends would consider me a cheating harridan and would turn against me. Happily I had plenty of friends of my own and I had Mr Jones and he made me happy.

While in public Mr M maintained an appearance of complete dignity. Something which I have always been incredibly grateful for. There were no public scenes or hideous arguments. He just played the part of the cuckold with great aplomb which just made people feel more sorry for him.

Behind the doors of our house however it was a different story. He eavesdropped on my conversations, went through my things, tampered with my course work and generally made me feel watched.

Every Wednesday night he would go out to the Tower nightclub with is friends, giving me a welcome night of peace. Some days Mr Jones would come round to see me and we’d live dangerously, wrapped in each others arms, half fearing that Mr M would come back.

Other nights I’d stay at home reading novels for my course in bed. On one such night Mr M came home drunk at about 9.30pm. He came thundering up the stairs and into my bedroom. “I think I’ve let you get away with too much, I think I should have been more forceful in our relationship, perhaps then you’d still be going out with me,” he said.

“Oh right,” – I was stumped and couldn’t quite see where this conversation was going.

He started moving towards the bed and it suddenly occurred to me what he had in mind. I asked him what he thought he was doing and told him to get out of my room. He refused.

I heard someone clear their throat downstairs and realised that he’d left his mates in the lounge. I clutched my pencil in my fist and waved it in his face – “Come any closer and I’ll scream and stab this pencil in your eye,” I said.

His drunken bravado seemed to leave him and he sunk back to sit on the bed. He looked sad, but I was in no mood for soothing his ego. “Get out,” I spat. My temper was unleashed and I slung a string of names and expletives in his direction. He beat a hasty retreat to the door. A moment later they all left. I sat there shaking wishing my bedroom door had a lock on it.

Snake bite and slushes - a love story - part 6

Mr M and I had had an interesting relationship – not interesting in an exciting way, but interesting in that we were both very young when we met – just 18 and in that sense we were both growing up and finding out who we were.

When you go to uni you have a chance to completely reinvent yourself, to become the person you’ve always dreamt of being, after all no one knows who you are. You can tell people anything and they have absolutely no way of proving you wrong – you only have your conscience to answer to.

Most people are happy enough with their lot to embellish only a few things – I for example was desperate for people to believe that I was far cleverer, cooler and sophisticated than I really was (this didn’t last long – I couldn’t keep my inner geek down). Other people embraced drugs, weird music or sports in an effort to leave their old selves behind.

Mr M went for total reinvention. I hesitate to write this because I actually think it reflects quite badly on me – you see Mr M felt the need to fib about his family background, his life and even his A level results to impress me. He told me that his mum was an A Level English Teacher, his dad was a stock broker, that he got As and Bs in his A levels, he lived in a grand house and frequented posh places.

He was fairly charming and as I’ve said before I was flattered by the attention. He hooked me in with stories and the fact that I could bend him to my will. But as we got to know each other cracks started to show in his stories. Shortly before I was to visit his family for the first time he had a kind of break down and came clean. His mum worked with children with special needs, his dad was an accountant and his lifestyle really wasn’t as grand (I didn’t find out about the A level results until later). That first visit we stayed with is grandma because he was still too embarrassed to take me to his parents home - I found out later he lived in a bungalow - why he should be ashamed of that I have no idea - after all he was from norfolk where most people live in bungalows!

I was shocked that he’d felt the need to lie to me – especially about his parent’s jobs – what on earth is wrong with helping kids with special needs? We argued and I felt betrayed, but I didn’t leave. I felt sorry for him. I thought it was sad that here was a person so embarrassed and ashamed of who he was and his background that he’d thought he needed to invent a whole new one.

I told him he didn’t ever need to lie to me and that being honest is one of the most important things you can do in a relationship. I made him promise never to lie to me again and reassured him that I would always be totally honest with him. A promise, that, I’m sorry to say I didn’t keep.

Once we were back at Hull it didn’t take long for things to take a turn for the worse. Mr M arrived back from inter semester break and I offered to help him unload his stuff from the car. He’d been quite convivial but on my third trip back from his beloved Fiat Punto laden with boxes he suddenly seemed really agitated.

“Are you seeing someone else,” he demanded.

My heart started racing and my stomach turned over. I put the box down and said casually, “No”, and then laughed weakly – why is it that you always laugh when you’re nervous even though it’s totally inappropriate?

“Don’t lie to me, I know you are, you’re seeing Mr Jones”

Oh, god, my brain went into overdrive, what was I supposed to say? How did he know? What should I do? I stood dumbfounded while he seethed with anger in front of me.

“I know something’s going on because I just read your text messages”

I was torn – terrified that my secret had been found out and enraged that he’d invaded my privacy and been through my messages. I racked my brains trying to remember just what texts were there and what they’d said, wondering if there was anyway I could talk my way out of this.

Then I remembered, I’d kept a treasured message from Mr Jones that read “I miss waking up with you”. Every time I read it I got a warm feeling in my stomach as I remembered our lazy days together. But it was my undoing – there was no going back now.

“How dare you check my phone?” I shouted.

“How dare you lie to me – how long has this been going on” he spat back

I took a deep breath and explained that Mr Jones had had absolutely nothing to do with my decision to end our relationship. I told him I’d known that it had been over for a while but that the kiss with Mr Jones at New Year had just confirmed it. I tried to make him understand that nothing more than one kiss had happened before we’d split up. That I hadn’t been cheating on him and that I understood that he’d find it hard to accept that I’d found someone new.

He stood and listened, a look of disbelief on his face. All he could say was “I can’t believe you’ve lied to me”. It was the lie that hit him hardest – he seemed more upset now than he had when I told him I didn’t want to be with him anymore. The guilt churned up my stomach.

“Everyone said there would be someone else, but I always said that you wouldn’t do that to me – you wouldn’t lie – now I look like an idiot because they were right and you’re a liar – you of all people are a liar. Does Miss B know?” he demanded.

“No,” I said. “And it’s not your place to tell her”

“Oh don’t worry I won’t – she should hear it from you two not from me,” and with that he turned and left.

I retrieved my phone and sent Mr Jones a text – “Mr M knows!”

Snake bite and slushes - a love story - part 5

One of the great things about Hull University is inter-semester break. A lovely period of one or two weeks in between exams and the spring/summer term. Luckily for me I only had one more exam to get through before I could run away from Mr M and head for the safety of home for almost two weeks.

We spent the next few days tip toeing around each other. We moved Mr M into the spare room – thank god for two bedrooms! We had endless conversations in which Mr M tried to convince me that our relationship was worth saving and I tried desperately to memorise line after line of romantic poetry for my English exam.

But before long I was on the train home, winding my way back to Mum and Dad and relative safety. It was good to escape. I drowned my sorrows in the pub with Mum and Dad and one Sunday afternoon was so merry that I found myself behind the bar in an afro wig singing a Supreme’s Medley – to the amusement of half the village.

Mr Jones at this time was back at home dealing with the reality of Miss B. I had no idea what was happening until he text me to say that he’d ended it. I was excited, but at the same time filled with guilt. She was my friend and her relationship was over – and in some part that was down to me.

The next day I received a text – You’ve started the rot – Mr Jones has just dumped me! How was I supposed to reply to that – if I ignored her she’d be suspicious – but if I replied what was I supposed to say?

Before I had chance to reply my phone started ringing – it was Miss B. My heart started to thud, a lump rose in the my throat and then slammed back down into my stomach sending waves of nausea rolling through my body. I answered.

“I know you two are close,” she said. “So has he said anything to you, he can’t seem to tell me why he doesn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“He hasn’t told me anything I’m sorry,” I lied. “I just know that I felt that Mr M and I weren’t working anymore, I didn’t feel happy and I thought we’d be better off apart. Maybe he feels the same…”

She started to cry and I did my best to comfort her – all the while burning with guilt. It wasn’t as if Mr Jones and I had been having a full blown affair – we’d had maybe two kisses, a few hugs and a lot, lot, lot of conversations – all about how we didn’t want to hurt anyone. But still I felt awful. I felt worse about Miss B than I did about Mr M – after all she hadn’t done anything to me.

When I put the phone down I sat and cried until my face was red and my eyes were puffy. I called Mr Jones and told him what had happened. He was en route to his aunt and uncles to escape home and Miss B. We both felt like cowards. Still we didn’t talk about being together. Neither of us wanted to jump from one relationship to another – but at the same time I missed him terribly.

A few days later I was house sitting for my uncle and brazenly invited Mr Jones to come and stay. I thought some time on our own would give us chance to decide what we were doing. To my surprise he came.

We spent our nights awake talking into the small hours of the morning and our days wrapped in each others arms watching daytime tv and snoozing. We didn’t make any plans, we ate takeaway and agreed to be friends – who kissed a lot. We knew when the time came to go back to uni that we’d have to keep things quiet for Mr M’s sake – but at that moment we just enjoyed being together. It felt easy, natural and right. I could be myself.

On our last day together Mr Jones drove me home. He stopped to use the phone to call his mum and it was at that moment that I think I first knew we were destined to be together.

At the time I had a very old and very wise Tabby cat – aptly named Tabby. She had been my best friend since I was about eight, she slept on my bed, gave the very best cuddles and was the most affectionate creature ever. She was friendly to everyone, but there were a select few people outside our immediately family that she really, really adored.

As Mr Jones stood in the hall on the phone to his mum, Tabby jumped from the floor onto the phone table. She then physically climbed, paw by paw, up Mr Jones’ body to get to his neck, she put a paw on each shoulder and proceeded to nuzzle and dribble all over him, purring and kissing him and generally telling me – “this one is a keeper”. She died a few years later, breaking a little piece of my heart when she went - but to this day I thank her for showing me the one person I should be with.

As I waved goodbye to Mr Jones that day I think in my heart of hearts that I knew that we would be together – I just wasn’t ready to admit it.

Snake bite and slushes - a love story - part 2

I spent the summer of the year 2000 doing a women’s writing course at UCLA. I’d been dreaming about it for years and for some reason had imagined eight weeks of classes under trees, protest rallies and poetry recitals in beatnik coffee houses. This is what happens when you watch too many student films set in the 1960s America. The reality was more air conditioned classrooms and Starbucks – the lack of romance was palpable.

Mixed in with my disappointment was a hefty dose of homesickness. I sent lengthy, tearful missives to my Mum and Mr M on a daily basis. Mr M wrote me handwritten letters and in my mind (we’ve already seen how reliable my imagination is) he became my chivalrous, blonde haired saviour. I dreamt of getting home and back into his loving, supportive arms, where I would cruise through my final year of university and skip off into the sunset en route to my surely upcoming wedding to him.

When I landed at Gatwick in early September Mr M was stood there with my parents, a bunch of flowers in hand. He wasn’t at all how I’d remembered him to be. He was all soft around the edges, with that irritating self-deprecating smile and those Labrador like eyes which said “tell me to do something and I’ll do it – right now – just to make you happy.” Hmmm.

I pushed these feelings to the back of my mind and blamed my irritability on jet-lag. Two weeks later and Mr M and I were moving in together – just the two of us – for our final year. I had been warned by my all knowing parents that this was a BIG MISTAKE – but with the self assurance of any 20 year old I knew what was best for me, and living with Mr M – away from the lazy, ungrateful, dirty kitchen floor loving pests that I’d lived with the year before – was the right move.

We played house for three months and the Friday nights in front of Gardener’s World began. I felt guilty for wanting to go out and stayed in weekend, after weekend, telling myself I should be concentrating on my work and that it was my third year and I really should be buckling down.

By Christmas I was starting to get weary of the whole thing. Not that I admitted it – even to myself. I kept telling myself it was a rough patch, that it hadn’t all been a mistake and that my desire to keep as far away from Mr M's family home over the Christmas break was just a yearning for a bit of “absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

Three days before Christmas he called me. “Umm about New Year’s Eve,” he said. “I’m not sure I have time to go and stay with Mr Jones and Miss B – I think I should stay in and revise.”

“Are you joking,” I asked – not bothering to hide the incredulity in my voice.

“No I really do think that I need to get on with stuff – I mean we have exams in three weeks and I really want to get good marks.”

“Well I am certainly not staying at home to revise on New Year’s Eve – we’ve got plenty of time. I’m going so it’s up to you if you come or not. I think you’re being ridiculous.”

“Ok then – we’ll go,” he said in a – yes I’ve made the decision and it’s the right one – tone of voice.

So off we went. Mr Jones cooked spaghetti bolognaise, we drank a lot of wine. Mr M and Miss B ate Viennetta due to a mutual hatred of anything lemon flavoured – Mr Jones and I ate Tarte au Citron.

I was so drunk by the end of the meal that by the time we got to the local pub I had to go and be sick. But with the cast iron constitution of a hard living student I washed away the taste of regurgitated spag bol with a vodka lemonade and lime (no slushes were to be had) and we all continued to get steadily drunker.

The pub was rammed and we were all packed around a tiny table. I was sat next to Mr Jones – opposite Miss B and Mr M. We were stuffed in so tightly that there was no light between us and every inch of our sides were touching.

I don’t remember what we talked about and nor do I remember how Mr Jones and I came to be holding hands under the table. What I do remember is the tingly thrill of feeling his fingers intertwined with mine and my brain fuzzily registering that something about it felt so right – despite the fact that is was oh so clearly very wrong.

We sat like that for most of the night – until midnight drew close and we all stuck on our coats and headed out into the chilly town square. The clock struck twelve and we all hugged and kissed, wishing each other Happy New Year. I squeezed Mr Jones tight and gave Mr M a quick peck on the lips.

A big group of us started the long walk back to Miss B’s house where the party was to continue. Down a dark alleyway Mr Jones decided he could deny his urge to pee no longer (oh the romance of this tale) and for some reason I was lagging behind everyone else and walking alone.

Mr Jones jogged to catch up with me and linked his arm through mine. We gazed at each other blurrily and before I knew what was happening we kissed. Not a long and passionate kiss, but a kiss with intention, not the sort of kiss that happens between people who are just friends. It was a kiss that sent shivers down my spine, set my heart racing and left me wanting more. We turned and kept walking – not saying a word.

Back at the house the party was in full swing. I found a spot on the floor and started to chat with people I didn’t know. Mr M sunk down next to me. I smiled as I turned to face him. “Did I just see you kiss Mr Jones?”

Snake bite and slushes - a love story - part 1

Mr Jones and I have been together for nine years this week and it occurred to me that in all the wedding planning and baby making news I’ve never told you the tale of how we came to be together. Of course some of you know all about it – because you were there – but most of you don’t. And even those of you who think you know it all probably don’t – because it’s a pretty complicated story full of friendship, betrayal and a whole lot of twenty-something angst, washed down with rose, snakebite and lime vodka slush. It might take me some weeks to get through it all – but I think it’s worth it in the end and I’ll have fun reminiscing even if you don’t have fun reading.

Let’s start at the very beginning. It wasn’t love at first sight. In fact I don’t actually remember meeting Mr Jones. Rumour has it that it was in the first few weeks at university in Hull – when you meet so many people it’s a complete surprise that you actually remember any of them.

Our first meeting was, reportedly, in a grungy pub called the Railway just down the road from our antiquated halls of residence. The regulars were a mix of local stalwarts and fresh faced students lured in by quiz nights and a cheap pint. On the night in question someone tried to down a yard of ale and was violently sick – you get the picture. There was a big group of us all together doing the quiz – boys and girls – but I don’t remember Mr Jones.

In fact I have no direct memory of when he entered my consciousness – he must have just filtered in, slowly and gently in his unpretentious way. I was going out with someone else at a time – well I say going out – but it could hardly be called going out – he lived in Hamburg and I was in Hull.

No, Mr Jones was just there – one of a group of boys that my friend Miss McMahon (now Mrs Williams) and I became rather attached to. Mr Jones had a girlfriend – we’ll call her Miss B, who visited from time to time and I said goodbye to the boyfriend in Germany and gave in to the attentions of someone new – we’ll call him Mr M.

At the time all it took to win me over was some champagne and red roses – I was fickle. I thought the fact that he knew my timetable off by heart and would pop up to see me in between lectures was sweet and I enjoyed the attention. With hindsight I start to feel the claustrophobia I felt two years later, when we split up, straight away.

It was never going to work. Mr M was too happy to please me – he agreed with everything I said and did everything I asked. When we went shopping he followed me around carrying my bags. I won every argument. It might sound great but that relationship made me arrogant – I was never put in my place. It made me mean – I used to pick a fight just to try to get a rise out of him. And it made me miserable –what 20 year old wants to spend their Friday night in playing house and watching Gardener’s World when she could be out with her friends?

For those two years Mr Jones and I were just friends. We shared a house together, argued about the heating and the state of the kitchen floor (I say argued – but what I mean is I got cross and everyone else laughed and shrugged and ignored my carefully drawn up cleaning rota). We went on double dates, we flirted (harmlessly) and on rare nights when the two of us were without our partners and tipsy on Snake Bite (Mr Jones) and Lime Vodka Slush (me) we discussed the shortcomings of our relationships.

I always had a good time when I was with Mr Jones. We shared a sarcastic sense of humour and spent our time tearing each other down. Miss B and Mr M hated Chinese and Indian – so they shared chips while we ate curry.

But never in all this did I think about Mr Jones being anything more than a friend – except in my dreams - literally. In the first semester in my first year I had a dream. I can still remember it vividly. I was running down corridor after corridor, the wind catching my hair and my skirt (odd because I never wore anything other than jeans) clinging to my legs as I ran. I was being pursued and was trying desperately to get away from Mr Jones who was trying to stop me with a fateful kiss. I woke up feeling bemused, but with a smile on my face. It wasn’t until New Years Eve 2000 that that kiss became a reality.