Earning my own personal pass to the ever-increasing social group of 'borrowed/extended families' was exciting. I was to become... wait for this...a stepmother!

I weave in and out of the emotional fabric of having very young children and not so young stepchildren, courtesy of the fact that I found Mr Husband's pearl rummaging through the rubbish left by another woman.

And what a find that was. I felt like somebody who is exploring a little French flea market, and spots, with the corner of her eye, an original Tintoretto among nasty cheap prints leaning against a dirty wall. I tried to get to know him better, (to follow the similitude, I went to the batch of prints, and pretended to examine the Tintoretto with studied, bored indifference) but, despite my resistance to joining the ready-made family, I was expecting his child before my toothbrush was safely installed in his bathroom.

Did the Tintoretto come home with me, or perhaps did I just follow it? I am not sure. For a while, I was lost in his colours. They may have lost some of their vibrance, but I know, deep inside, that the painting is an original. I don't regret the purchase, I simply worry about deserving its ownership. Sometimes, I sit in front of it and wait for the inspiration to feel worthy.

I have always waited for something. It must be a woman's destiny to wait.

When I was younger, it was the telephone or the mobile; will he ring? Will he ask me out? Will it be this weekend? What would you consider the latest he can ring, ask and receive a 'yes' for an answer without it making me sound desperate?

Then it was the turn of waiting for the pint, and the kebab. Past the zits and the McDonald's job, it was waiting for the restaurant bill which you hope he will not agree to split in the middle, because what kind of gentleman is he if he expects you to pay for half of it? Would you expect him to give birth to half of his babies?

Further down the line, it's waiting for the blue line to tell you whether you are going to embark in the incredible experience of becoming parents. Waiting for the tests to tell you that the baby is fine. Waiting for the contractions. The nursery furniture. The weight to fall off. The clothes to fit again.

The sexual desire to come back.

And now, I wait for Mr Husband to come back home. It's almost 10.30pm, and he is still out there, driving back from some function. We have the big house, and the two blond children, a huge mortgage and broken tiles on the roof, I am getting older and I am STILL waiting. A white widow to modern society timings and demands.

I go to put the kettle on, and wait for the water to boil.