I got my chance one night, sitting outside and smoking B&H with him (we thought we were cool, okay!). He lay on the grass with his head in my lap. I found myself holding his hand up to my mouth and kissing his fingers, one by one. I remember him saying it was nice… finally, this was it. This I could do. I couldn’t talk to him without choking, I’d never tell him how I felt, but put him on his back under the stars and I was pretty damn close to heaven.

I don’t know who kissed first, him or me. Minor detail. What mattered was that it was sexy and wonderful and if ever there was such a thing as a perfect moment, this was it. I felt with electric certainty that nothing – nothing – would ever live up to this. And all we did was kiss. Bloody talented, that boy.

Other suitors included, in random order, Very Dumb Lifeguard Boy, Arrogant American Boy, Boy Who Was Actually Still Married The Bastard, Guitar-Playing Political Hippie Boy, Delusional Boy Who Told Me His Parents Were Spies Or Something and Scary Policeman Boy. Not included are the random 2am-after-six-Hunters gentlemen – for two reasons. Firstly, because a girl’s gotta know when to stop embarrassing herself, and secondly, importantly, because I can’t remember their names.

Then there’s my latest crush, and this is truly embarrassing. It’s Robbie Williams.

Don’t laugh! Sigh… I, too, was like you, not so long ago. I scorned his music and scoffed at the culture-starved ignoramuses who loved him. I thought I was better than that.

It happened one hot night in November. Channel surfing while waiting for the Veet Bikini cream to work, I stumbled upon a Robbie documentary. And was mesmerised. Yes, mesmerised. I lay there for an hour, Veet forgotten (by the way, when they say “Do Not Exceed 10 Minutes,” they really mean it), drooling with lust. When the programme ended, I emerged from my trance bereft. I needed more, more, I tell you. It’s the tattoos, probably. And those lines around his mouth – oh my, his mouth. Ouch.

Sigh… Now there’s a Man I Would Pay To Have Meaningless And Degrading Sex With. I’ve collected quite a bit of his music lately, and I’m trying to like it, I really am, but my finger still itches to hit the “Next” button. Sorry, Robbie. To be honest, I just want to see you with your pants off, really.

As I said, New Boss Man’s concern about my love life was not entirely unfounded. At that stage, I was going through a regrettable phase of swapping one guy for the next, like chain-smoking, except with men, not cigarettes.

Lesson One: office romances are no good. After trying it three times, I have finally got the message. It took a while, but I now know that Shagging Colleagues Is Frowned Upon. And with good reason. Makes everybody think you’re a slag, for one thing. Even if you’re not.

Number One was a guy thirty years older than me (yes, you heard right). We had a good time together, and didn’t care if people looked at us funny. It ended after five months, and I don’t regret a minute of it. We both understood that there was no future in it. We were just having a good time. There’s a lot to be said for dating an older man, although I won’t say it, because my mother is going to read this. He was an interesting guy with a fabulous Scottish accent. (I’ve always had a fetish for foreign accents, ever since my sexy French boyfriend when I was thirteen. Ah! Those green eyes, the perfect skin and the way he would read The Magic Roundabout to me in French… Yum).

My first date with Number One started with Mexican food and many jugs of sangria. It ended sometime the next morning with the nagging feeling that I’d shagged Billy Connolly. Everybody at work knew about our fling and took great delight in teasing me about it, no doubt gossiping viciously behind my back, too. I didn’t care. We managed to keep it from New Boss Man for a while, as he would have had kittens. But he found out eventually.

He saw us leaving work together one afternoon. I saw him watching us for ages, and I knew what was coming. Later on, he stopped Number One on the stairs on his way back up to his office.

“So, are you and Tracy relatives or something? I often see you coming to work together,” he asked.

I nearly choked on my own spit. Relatives? Was he joking, or was he seriously that naive? Or was he malicious enough to want to make us spell it out for him? The entire office went silent – everybody wanted to see us get fired.

Number One took charge of the situation smartly, as he always did. He wasn’t intimidated by the horrible little man at all. They hated each other and I was often stuck in the middle. They fought about everything, just for the chance to be right. Jeez, if I never see another itemised cellphone bill in my life it will be too soon. Another reason why Cosmo writes all those articles about never dating colleagues.

“Actually, no, sir. Tracy is my girlfriend. We’ve been going out for a while now.” All very matter of fact and calm.

Seeing New Boss Man’s cheeks puff up and turn red, then purple, then a deathly shade of white was delicious. He was livid. I could see his mind working furiously, trying to find something in company policy forbidding such conduct. Unfortunately for him, there was nothing in writing. Unofficial company policy was Shag Everybody You Possibly Can, but actual relationships between staff members were unusual, so talking about the relationship between Number One and me was a delectable teatime treat. You can imagine the atmosphere in an office with an equal split between single women in their early twenties and married men in their thirties and forties. Gaaah. The stuff those people got up to. Much worse than me, I promise.