Mr Lost,

What would you say if I told you that I am not wearing any knickers? Would the little physical knowledge we have of each other ignite your fantasy, or would the impudence spoil your image of me?

Should I not gather a few ideas in preparation for our meeting, an encounter which may or may not take place?

What would I say to you, as Emma?

When I saw you at the pub, a night that now feels like a lifetime ago, did I notice you because I was ready to notice a man, or simply because of you: your features, your posture, your demeanour? Crucially, once I started talking to you, did I just find your voice pleasant, or did you say the right things?

I look around me and inside me, searching for whatever is lacking. I already know that my marriage and motherhood have stripped me of the old Emma's essence. What else?

Lifestyle, of course, is but one of the fatalities which occur when a woman chooses a companion.

As single, I felt lonely but childishly free to sleep star-like in the double bed, eat jam toast naked, bar my glasses, at weekends; accept lifts from strangers after the pub's closing time and trust my instinct that I would not be raped and strangled; allow a large part of my spirit to roam about without the constraints of sensibility.

Is thinking about consequences part of growing up, or is that merely growing apart? Apart from your true self, that it. Is it really necessary to donate oneself to the other, or can people 'own each other' by the combined sharing of each individual's unique blend of features?

I realise now that I have been in perpetual mourning over the loss of my former foolishness and the discovery of wisdom. And whilst it is right and fair to do anything I can for my children and husband, I have, in the process, forgotten who I was.

Would Mr Lost like the girl who slept in the garden because the moon was full, or flung a few clothes in a bag, deciding overnight to drive to Ireland for fun? Is it unjust to compare that carefree girl with the one laden with duties and chores, and the heaviest of all weights: guilt?

I have not forgotten the sleepless nights spent crying over a man who would never be mine; the feeling of being ignored; the suspicion that I did not matter at all. A family life provides all the guarantees that secure your place in society, by making the parent and spouse irreplaceable; and yet, I feel everything but important.

Would I rely on Mr Lost simply to find my value? Or do you, like me, feel keenly the sense of time going by and peeling another layer off your soul, another day gone without having nurtured a little of what you once were?

I live a lie, and yet I bend it into my own truth. If I am required to behave sensibly in Mr Husband's office, where fine-tuning work goes on undetected behind the scenes, where the clients are the stars and consultants just make them shine, I feel like I die inside; I was not born to shroud myself in anonymity and give all the room to others. I want to jump on the leather chair, stand there in my high heels and shout 'ta-da!', opening my arms wide to an invisible audience.

Instead, I punch the date stamp so hard that it bleeds into the papers.

That annoys Mr Husband.

It could be worse. I could tell him that he has never owned me. Nobody has, not even my boys.

So, what would you say if I told you that I am not wearing any knickers because... that's the way I am?