My husband rescued me from an abusive relationship.

I had allowed the man I was seeing then to strip me of any hope ever to be happy again. It feels like a lifetime ago. I was in my late twenties, and in a new job. 

 It had started innocently enough, with the typical scenario of meeting someone at work. One day I was immersed in my computer screen, trying to work out some market analysis which my awful boss wanted done the day before (as usual) , when I heard this deep mahogany voice behind me; the perfect posh accent of a privately educated twat.

'I believe we have not been introduced', he said.      

'When I turned towards the musical voice I saw him, with the chiselled jaw and Beethoven-sque stormy hair and features.  'Hello! I am Mr Bastard, and will make your life an utter misery for the next five years', he said.

Of course he didn't. He might just as well have done, though.

I was engaged to be married - shock horror! - with my wedding dress at the tailor's for the last few touches, one more fitting to go. And I was as scared as I could possibly feel: the thought of tying the knot made my throat painfully contract with panic. Married! To a socialist, a hypocritical middle-class young yuppy who spent his evenings drinking with like-minded socialists swearing life-long hatred for Mrs Thatcher, whilst all of them were reaping the benefits of her illuminated social structure affording to personal merits very high personal credits. 

Why, oh why? My fiance' was clever and funny, when he was not throwing plates at me for professing my admiration for Jeffrey Archer. We had a good time and felt that we could prolong it by having a silly bash after church, a couple of children afterwards, mortgage repayments and a fatter waistline. 

I secretly wanted a glamorous career and being able to spend the equivalent of Zimbabwe's annual GDP in toiletries every month. 

It was never going to work. 

When I turned to look at the owner of that silky voice, I was ready for an affair. In fact, I think I decided I would fancy him even before I clapped eyes on his Pink shirt. 

Unfortunately for my fiance', and even more so for myself, I actually fancied him very much indeed. The voice matched the looks, and there was no ring on his finger. Mind you, there was no ring on MY finger, and no sign that there would be one in two months' time. Petty details. 

'Good morning, Mr Bastard. Please allow me to be persuaded by your suave manners to believe that you are about to get a divorce, have not slept with the mother of your two children for years, and will sweep me off my feet and into a magical world of eternal happiness within a week. I am Miss Thick, by the way. And Very is my first name.'