I am envious of most people's apparent ability to sail through life as if they were perfectly self-contained; as if they could just match their needs to the available tools to fulfill them. It might be a good philosophy to adopt, after all: using whatever blessing one has to plug that particular desire, to satisfy that certain craving, rather than looking for the right instrument to do the same job.

Put it into other words, one could be describing the meaning of happiness just by using a double negative: happiness is the 'not lacking'.

Not feeling unloved, because we have the bountiful and limitless affection of our children; not feeling rejected, because there are so many ways to stretch one's hand and help a stranger; not feeling insecure, because everybody has special skills with which to excel at least in small ways; not feeling alone, because there are hundreds of people around us, every day, whether real or the product of one's fruitful imagination.

By the same account, what kind of woman sets out to search for one step ahead of the 'not lacking' and, in doing so, may put her marriage and family on the line?

A woman like me.

I think the problem may stem from the fact that I am not really acquainted with the concept of simple happiness. I know the heart-stopping jolt of reaching euphoria from profound despair, but not the many stages in between.

My mother was either deliriously affectionate towards me, subject to my complying to her every wish, or cruelly aggressive and hurtful when I wasn't; as a little girl, in our house the rows between my parents were dramatic and colourful, if the sight of blood can be defined as such; or there was perfect silence and quiet which, by definition, were the top of my wish list; either I was unemployed and poor or in a high-flyer job, Club Class seats, caviar and champagne; in a dead relationship with Mr Bastard and his regular guilt-trips, or rescued by decent, sensible and loving Mr Husband.

Where am I? Where do I sit in this roller-coaster, and is there a half-way stop? A way to decide the route, the speed and the point of exit?

The charming aspect of flirting with a stranger is the fine, hazy line between what is said and what is left unsaid; the alluring possibility that, hidden behind the well-expressed compliment or the addictive, but never sufficient amount of attention, there may be something more, yet another tool to use for one's private search.

Not the 'not lacking', but the real thing. Not just another body to have and to hold, but a mirror in which finally to see oneself reflected, and like what one sees.

Mr Vroom sits in my kitchen with a glass of water in his hand.

I'd much rather he had a coffee with me. A hot drink gives the soothing impression of a treat enjoyed and shared: a glass of water may simply be the sign of one's thirst.

He has been here before, of course. For other, well spent cups of coffee, cradled in our hands as we discussed irrelevant little items in our lives and laughed. More recently, he has visited to tell me how unsettling my online diary has been to him and his days; and yet, he had appeared to have accepted my all-devouring fantasies by ignoring them, by getting on with life as it was. The 'not lacking' concept again: use what you have to make yourself happy.

'The moles are back', he says.

'So are you', I reply. I wish I did something with my hands, such as dipping a biscuit in my coffee, but have not been able to eat for days.