Gentle flirting has the uncunning ability continuously to teeter on the fine line between underlying sexual attraction and indifferent kindness.  Its core playing nature pivots around the human mind's powerful fantasy: did I get the right 'vibes'? Were those the signs I was hoping for? Does he think of me, Emma, the one and only Emma, above all others? Or is he just a figment of my fervid imagination?  

Being convinced that a man might be interested in me, Emma, the new Bovary of the XXI century, Emma the woman, not the mother, nor the friend, wife or neighbour, has worked wonders for my mood. In fact, and for a while now, I have been using my sporadic fantasies about occasional men to help me lurch from one identity crisis to the next. 

Wondering whether my GP might have seen my body beyond  the rarefied idea of me as a patient, during that famous examination, carried me through the last winter of discontent, marital indifference and a more physical kind of cold (we had no money to buy a full tank of oil so I resorted to piling all the members of my family in the big bed, at night, and warmed the sheets with a hair-dryer).

I recently found myself considering, in an alarmingly cold-blooded way, a particularly muscular personal trainer at the local gym - he reminded me of the young Pilates instructor who left the imaginary imprints of his strong hands around my ankles. Every time I walked by I could feel his eyes pinching my bottom. However, I discarded him and the idea of hot, steamy sex in the studio, after the classes, when I overheard two women gossiping about him and realised that he was already rather popular with the ladies.

I do not lust after men who are just up for grabs. 

Mr Vroom, though, is a more difficult proposition. For a start, he is physically close and awkward to avoid. Secondly, he has got the charm of old, based on kindness and gallant, verbose compliments - rather than a V12 engine and a Rolex.  

Believing that he might entertain less than pure thoughts about me has automatically halved my food intake. Just like that. This is relatively easy to explain, of course. Every time I feel that the world has forgotten me, Emma the primadonna grabs at the red curtain and swoons dramatically onto the unpolished floor of depression.

So I reach for the chocolate biscuits. Have not earned a decent wage since I had the children? Have a chocolate biscuit. Does the husband watch the TV and ignore my desperate attempts at engaging him in conversation? Why, have another chocolate biscuit. 

If I didn't go to the gym and dished the gardening out to some wholesome hunky bloke in a panama hat (now, there's a thought) I would be truly obese. 

Nevertheless, Mr Vroom's new place in my fantasies has taken the biscuits away, as I absorb all the self-confidence nutrients from the idea of him as a sexual being. Or rather, the idea of him looking at me as a sexual being. A slimmer, sleeker and happier me. And not even a kiss has been exchanged. Ah, the power of our mind! 

This business of the extendable ladder has taken quite a tumble, though - pun intended. I was late for our little appointment, whereas he couldn't bring the ladders and offer his personal services in assisting me with said ladders' use.

I was annoyed, but the delay was due to a long overdue arrangement to see my beautician; the slimmer, sleeker and happier me is still rather hairy and who wants to fantasise about sex with a stranger when your bikini line looks like two little fluffy teddy bears have been gutted and placed carefully across the sides of my La Senza knickers? No wonder I was late. 

He could have suggested that he come tomorrow, complete with ladders. Instead, he unceremoniously dumped them in my courtyard later on in the afternoon. I don't see that as a judicious use of one's opportunities, do you? 

Yes, he also left a large punnet of strawberries laughing their red cheeky faces off at me, and a message suggesting that I call him if I need his help tomorrow but I am, nevertheless, rather disappointed. 

This, my dear reader, puts the ball firmly back in my court; and I don't do chasing. Primadonnas are too busy grappling with the red curtain, and the point of our little game is that I be allowed to grapple, not chase, surely.     

Maybe he doesn't fancy me at all, after all. Now, where are those chocolate biscuits?