Half-term. Lawn to mow, children to entertain, job to search, feature to write, house to manage, shopping to do, accounts to wrestle with, life to live.

I am going out tonight with glamourous single white female friend, blessed with blond hair and deep blue eyes. Both sets of children will be with their respective fathers. I shall tell her about the article Mr Soon-to-Be Ex-Husband waved under my nose, about sex-addiction and low self-esteem. We will agree that, for someone who is branded as a sex-addict, we seem to be remarkably clueless as to what sex is all about. I have fuzzy memories of some activity involving two bodies and a vaguely flat surface.

I ask my Imaginary Friend whether he thinks I am a sex addict. 'No more than I, darling', he answers, and strokes my face. 'Sometimes people are uncomfortable with one's personal quest for the dream intimacy, and label it with more mundane names. "Low self-esteem" has become the modern scapegoat for every socially-perceived altered behaviour. You could retaliate by calling them Frozen Domesticity Barons, but I'd rather you didn't waste time; let's hold hands and disappear into the sunset.'

Not quite yet, though. The Blond and I are hitting the buzzing countryside nightlife (!) tonight.

'I'll wait up for you', calls my Imaginary Friend.

'No, you won't', I reply. 'You are on holiday with your family, remember?'

'That's never stopped me from waiting up for you.'

I laugh. That's what friends are for.