I went to see Mr Vroom, my older racing car driver and neighbour, who has been the object of my sexual fantasies for a few days now. No, let me rephrase that: he has been ONE of the objects of my sexual fantasies. For, my dear reader, sexual fantasies are multicoloured and bountiful, not lending themselves - by their very greedy nature - to the limits of individual desires and cravings.

As practical issues forced me to refuse a one-to-one meeting over coffee/chat (the time coincided to my school pick-up duties), I went along to a threesome, knowing that Mrs Vroom would be there too.

The first thing I noticed was the Mr Vroom felt a lot more comfortable allowing me to do the chatting. I had geared myself up for some 'double entendre' verbal diatribes involving the occasional glimpse into my darker, machiavellian soul. Instead, Mrs Vroom and I discussed the merits of vegetable patches, the yield of five hundred strawberry plants, and what to do with the Sunday roast's leftovers.

I am definitely made of the perfect material for a lover: there I was, keeping a straight face and looking interested in baby courgettes, when I could have talked about vintage car racing (oh, I do love racing...) with the silent husband. Why? Because I believe that the best way to enjoy a secret affair with a married man is to look completely harmless to his wife.

When she was satisfied that her much younger neighbour was sincerely interested in how to get rid of 'sticky willies' - no, I am not making that one up, it's the trade name for the weeds - Mrs Vroom allowed me to be shown around their lovely plot by her husband.

The first item we saw was a fig tree. How appropriate! Does anybody know how difficult it is to resist the temptation of commenting on the biblical implications of fig leaves to a man who is forced to be on his best behaviour?

And the fruit itself! The soft, fleshy oval, opening up to a juicy centre, generous and sweet, a brief promise of earthly pleasure to be picked and eaten there and then....

Perhaps talking about vegetable patches and orchards can, after all, be as sexy as discussing car racing.

Mr Vroom pointed at some shrivelled-up figs on the top branches. 'We couldn't get to those before it was too late', he said.

'Shame', I answered. 'Isn't that the point with figs?'