I once dated a man who told me he lived in Marlborough. It turned out that he lived in his car, which was parked in Marlborough. This story pretty much sums up my colourful dating history, which started when I got my first boyfriend at 16. He was a wannabe firefighter in the year above me at school, and was a perfect first in every way, but he also became the first boy I lived with. He moved into my parents’ house when his own family situation became untenable and I got very used to going to bed next to someone every night.
That’s probably why I spent the next decade as a serial monogamist, hopscotching between men. The only thing they had in common was that they were always older. They were fellow journalists, personal trainers, photographers, chefs, finance boys and musicians. After sixth form, and then university, I met most of them at work in London, where I had an office and colleagues, plus after-work drinks at the packed pubs opposite.
