London it was. I borrowed my son's eyes through which to look at the train journey, and marvel at how many tracks there were, snaking their way under our feet; how fast the mechanical monsters chuff-chuffed towards the crowd whilst following their rails; how blurred the countryside ran in front of our faces squashed against the window pane.

Once the excitement of departure had died down, the buggy was safely tucked away in the overhead compartment with the help of a teenager in floppy hair and rucksack - no doubt going on his gap year in Azerbaijan - whose outrageous public school accent was only outgunned by the businessman's sitting opposite me and talking about hedge funds down his Blackberry. Thus my point was proved: as I said before, most people living in this part of the world are TWATs (Toffied Wellies Abandoning Town) and commuting to London; the entire compartment was ringing with posh voices and red braces. The last time I noticed such a concentration of clipped accents, I was attending the Henley Regatta and eating strawberries and cream.

There is something very soothing about the rhythmic movement on a train that sends me to sleep almost immediately. A very unwise move when one has a five-year-old in tow.

I must have nodded off for a couple of minutes when I felt a little uncomfortable; upon opening my eyes I noticed that the businessman's own were fixed on my chest. Pest n.2 had thought it fit to lower the straps on my dress and let it drop, revealing my bra to the entire carriage. At least it was one of my better ones.. I managed not to smack the little runt.

As Euston station approached fast, Mr Lost and I had an exchange of text messages in which it was mutually agreed that it might not be a good idea to meet, after all; not today. I suspect that we may be both rather wary of trying to fill each other's emotional void in one easy session, over a coffee and with a five-year-old looking on. I don't suppose Pest n.2 would have appreciated the Tate Modern.

We stopped by the Embankment Gardens; as I struggled with my phone and the idea that I would not meet Mr Lost, despite being so physically close to him, Pest n.2 climbed three trees, relieved himself behind two, and careered down the narrow and steep path, kneeling down inside his free-wheeling stroller and screaming 'weeeeeeeeeee' on his way past me. I pretended not to know the child.

As I sat at the coffee shop, I got chatting to a man; a good looking man, in fact. Possibly there with his son, like so many fathers seemed to be out spending quality time with their offspring now that the schools are over.

I thought of Mr Lost and our missed opportunity; the stranger was engaging but I felt as if I were being cross-examined. Perhaps that was an opportunity for me to rehearse our much desired meeting; I tried to be charming, but I must be well out of practice. Pest n.2 was flicking peas to the pigeons; I half-heartedly picked at the cold chips on his plate. My coffee was weak and dreary. I kept wondering whether my lipstick was still on, or the mascara had smudged in the hot train compartment, making me look like Mrs Panda.

Then, to top it all, my hand and thigh felt suddenly quite wet and sticky: close examination confirmed that a pigeon had aimed well, and given me a shot of good luck.

I found myself searching for something to wipe the good luck off my hands and gypsy dress, now rather caked in brown; my newly found companion helped clean up the strap of my bag and I wondered what Mr Lost would have done, in such an embarrassing situation.

Suddenly, I was glad that he didn't really see Emma at all. I probably would have attempted some seductive phrase, and ended up whispering in his ear something clumsy.

For example, that I wasn't wearing any pants.

Pants! He would have laughed. I don't actually wear pants. In fact, I hardly wear any knickers at all, let alone pants.

I must practice my mistress impersonation more thoroughly. It's hard to feel sexy when your dress is covered in bird poo.