At school I fancied the head boy. Harbouring a crush on him was a team sport: half my class shared the infatuation. "I really fancy you," I told him one day after lunch, all heart in mouth, hair in a ponytail and skin decorated not with make-up but with acne. "That's so nice of you," he said, and then after a pause added, "We don't even know each other." Despite his polite put-down, it felt good to be a spokesman for my heart. At university there were library . . .

I blame the job. It was a boring job with long hours and little mental stimulation. I have to blame something. Otherwise how do I excuse my raging crush on a man who looked like a badger and wasn't particularly nice to me? It wasn't love at first sight. It wasn't love at all. A crush isn't love-it doesn't have anything to do with love. It wasn't a bolt out of the blue, it was a mounting fixation fuelled by boredom and romantic novels. The interminable number-checking . . .