In which my optimism amazes me

Oh God. Oh dear God. I have finally reached rock bottom. You thought it was bad when my husband cheated or I lost my home or David failed to take out the trash? No. That wasn’t it. This is it. I have purchased a £4 skin cream in Boots.

I needed a moisturiser for reasons which will become clear later on in this column. I started to think of the days when I would waft into Harrods and buy something by Sisley: an all-day, all-year cream costing £271 or Elixir serum vials for £369. And I used to go into Space NK and buy something by RéVive: an anti-ageing serum costing £380. Originally invented for burns victims, it’s also very useful for women who don’t want their husband to cheat on them.

These unguents didn’t work, of course. I still grew older. My husband still cheated on me. Anyway, in Boots, as I took my purchase to the till, the salesperson gave me a look. It said. ‘You are one of us. You are ordinary.’

The skin cream is fine. Who knows if it’s any good. I tend to think these days that it is how nice you are as a human being that shows in your face, not how much you spend on beauty products. I wonder if my face shows that I’ve tried. I have never turned down an assignment or called in sick. I treat my dogs and horses with respect. I put their needs before mine. Always. So many people treat their horses like cars.

David still hasn’t replied to my email telling him that I am in love with him, but I can’t stand the way he lives. I’m starting to wonder, Boots cream or no, whether I am too old for all this dating malarkey. Let’s take the cystitis every time we have sex. It’s called the honeymoon disease. I remember the first time I got it. I was dating my future husband and had to go to Paris for the fashion shows. I was staying in the Montalembert Hotel, the very place Nancy Mitford’s heroine stayed in, close to the Diptyque candle shop (you can see I was clearly mad; I literally used to burn money). Suddenly, by the ancient lift, I had an urge to pee. This was all new to me, of course. I had the honeymoon disease, aged 41. It was a badge of honour in a way.

But why do I have it now, whenever I have sex with David? It’s not as though we do it that often, given I have three giant collies who sleep on the bed and don’t let him anywhere near me. So I googled it. Oh God. I am so ashamed. It turns out that the lining of your lady parts becomes thinner as you get older. (I used Sisley. For several seasons!!!

Does that count for nothing? I have the receipts!) Which means it’s easier to get infected. Oh no! Why has Woman’s Hour not spent at least a half hour on this topic? And I thought his not putting his rubbish out was the major problem.

Anyway. Forget him and his not replying. I’m currently obsessing over the antipodean Hunk. I went for dinner with a friend on Saturday and she said, ‘Just go to Sydney; jump on a plane! What is stopping you?’ ‘But I have three collies.’

‘This is about you! How many more grand passions are you going to have?’

I didn’t say I haven’t had any. Yet. And so, since she said that, I have been browsing boutique harbour-side hotels; finding out how much a business-class flight is on Qatar Airways. (It is £4,000!) Thing is, if I fly economy I will spend the difference bulk-buying YSL Touche Eclat. Do you know what? When I first met the Hunk I bought some Touche Eclat the minute I landed in Bali. And the sales person said to me, ‘Would you like to put some on now?’ Cheeky cow.

I am thinking, which hotel has the best lighting? The best pool? A nice balcony? What if I get there and find out he has remarried? How stupid will I look? I have considered hiring a private eye to find out. I feel like Meg Ryan in Sleepless in Seattle, typing his name into a computer.

But isn’t it amazing that I am still this optimistic? Still thinking of a window when I can go to Sydney and am currently working backwards to book in my beauty treatments (it’s a long, long list)? That, despite all the knockbacks, I am optimistic. OK. Here goes. How many passengers? One.

I’m starting to wonder whether I’m too old for all this dating malarkey