When people say that marriage does not, or should not, change anything in a relationship, they forget the emotional impact of its commitment; in the transition between being a 'Miss' and becoming a 'Mrs', I forgot all about my previous independence and embraced, whole-heartedly, a new kind of adult life: I joyfully left Miss Emma simmering in the cauldron of earlier unmarried, ruffled mornings, picking up scrunched up panties in the landing and rushing to work, mascara on one eye (the other bit would be shoddily applied in the car, using the rear-view mirror) and the promise to see each other on the following weekend.

Miss Emma graciously moved on one side to give way for Mrs Emma and her two children, caotic mornings when there would be three scrunched-up pants in the landing and screaming fights at the breakfast table, followed by more screaming fights in the back of the car. Mrs Emma still applies the mascara using the rear-view mirror, but on both eyes, casting searing looks at the rascals at the back as she separates the eyelashes with the old, half-dry stiff brush.

I know that deep inside, Miss Emma has always wanted to move over to accommodate Mrs Emma, her new mortgage repayments and saggy tummy; whilst Miss Emma could eat three donuts and stil look stunning in her single-girl swimming costume with the no-shame, removable-top option, Mrs Emma's chocolate binging, which supports her carefully constructed emotional house of cards, means three hours at the gym to dispose of all evidence.

Mr Husband, in the meantime, continues with life as if the newer wife and extra two children - he was, once, Mr Husband to somebody else, and is Dear Papa to another set - were a simple addition to his many, existing responsibilities.

I very nearly did not meet Mr Husband at all.

Happily unhappy with Mr Bastard, I vaguely recall making the one, sensible decision, which was to join a dating agency, knowing fully well that - unless somebody else did the legwork and actively tried to match me up with another member of the opposite sex - I would have remained Miss Sad Mistress for the rest of my life.

I also decided to appoint a 'regal' kind of dating agency, not the cheaper end of the market where you get alcoholics with an ASBO and a court order to stay away from their ex-girlfriends. So, I got the posher kind of alcoholics, with a court order to pay maintenance to their former spouses living rent-free in lovely Victorian houses with black swans in the lake nearby.

The profiles I was regularly sent through the post all mentioned good-looks and safe jobs, but failed to point out: a tendency to use the dating agency as a quick way to get a leg-over; a common form of obsessive-compulsive disorder which forced the men I met to discuss themselves in the minutest detail whilst nursing the one and only glass of red plonk they could order (Victorian houses with black swans in the lake nearby being a big drain on their finances, obviously); and an impervious attitude to rejection. I literally had to run on a couple of occasions, once even hiding behind my vehicle in the car park until the gentleman in question had stopped wailing 'Emma! Emma! Come out! I know you are there somewhere!'

Mr Future Husband, on the other hand, turned out to be handsome but not self-obsessed.

On the phone, he sounded well-spoken and polite; when I finally agreed to meet him, having gone through so many frogs that I could have supplied a French restaurant, he bought the first round of drinks, and then the second. He even offered to buy the third, but I was too busy answering questions about me to notice.

Ironically, it was a sense of low self-esteem which made me realise that Mr Future Husband was Mr Husband's material. Being treated fairly and kindly after much heartache is like pulling a small warm blanket over one's cold and half-frozen body: when the heat starts to work its magic, one notices the continuing discomfort of the parts which have not been covered.

Meeting Mr Future Husband, whose immediate warmth enveloped me so well, displayed Mr Bastard's shortcomings like neon signs. Miss Emma felt, for the first time in years, invincible.