I am going to the office today; it does not happen very often, probably once a week or twice, if Mr Husband is lucky; for it is his office I spend my time at, doing what I was definitely not born to do: paperwork, accounts, checking CVs... I am so far removed from this perfectly ordered world that I gasp for air when I have a chance to get out of it.

Still, the CVs are interesting enough; it always amuses me to notice that there are people out there on salaries of 400k+ who cannot spell 'definitely' or adorn their plurals with a few apostrophes. I get my red biro out and circle the mistakes with glee, although my job is to fit the many individual CVs into the firm's standard format; a little like squashing differently sized cardboard boxes into the same, flat rectangular shape.

A recruitment recycling operative. That's what I am, when I spend time in the office. I am not allowed to talk loudly or live loudly. In fact, I put myself on hold whilst I sort out other people's dreams and desires for a better job and a better life.

That does not stop me from wearing nice frocks; it's the perfect opportunity to escape from the mumsiness of the rest of my week, and I take it. Today, I am wearing an obscenely short flowery dress with innocent-looking frills at the rim, which lift at the lightest breeze. And high-heeled red sandals.

Shoes are such an accurate clue to study, if one wants to delve into the mystery of a woman's personality. There is something rather happy, cheerful but also supremely sinful about wearing red shoes.

These ones are socially acceptable with a hint of depraved twinkle about them. And they are giving me a blister. Already.

I dropped off Pest n.1 and n.2 at the summer camp this morning, and tried to hug them and leave as quickly as I could. The coach stopped me at the door.

'Are you doing anything exciting today?'

Now, let me look. I am going to the office; at some point I shall pop in to the optician to have some glasses repaired. My shoes are already killing me. Dinner will have to be sorted out in a rush. One of the Suitcase Children, my beautiful stepdaughter, is coming to stay for a couple of days. She will hog the computer and pinch my makeup. She will text her three or four boyfriends and try to keep tabs with what she is saying to whom, whilst playing with my boys. All in all, a very boring couple of days ahead.

'No!', I shout, and rush out.

The word he used, though, stays with me as I climb into my car.

Exciting.

Is there anything exciting I should be doing?

I follow the traffic sheep out of town and pour into the dual carriageway, which opens up cutting the countryside in two. Before long, I have nobody behind and nobody in front of me. The road is mine.

I push the accelerator down with the foot encased in the red sandal. The engine roars and stretches, baring its alloy teeth. The road feels nice and smooth, like the steering-wheel under my hands.

I let one hand wander, on my lap first, then between my legs. Now that I am sitting in the car, the short dress rides up even more, folding its lightweight fabric right across the top of my thighs. I pull my panties over to one side, idly considering pulling them down altogether.

A long stretch of straight road ahead does not demand any input from me, apart from keeping the steering-wheel in the same position. My fingers find the spot they were looking for and settle there; no rush.

REM is blaring in the background. Oh, how I love their music. How I love the tingling feeling down below, where my hand explores well-known places connected with both my brain and my loins. I wish I could shut my eyes and see Mr Lost's own on me.

Then, just after a sweeping, open bend, I see him. A bloody cyclist, on a dual carriageway. Happily riding his bike without a care in the world.

I swerve wildly. Both hands on the steering-wheel.

I wonder whether he got the same kind of excitement out of seeing a car so close to his bottom, but I doubt it.

Emma, Emma. I shake my head, in disbelief. I should have pulled over to indulge in my little play, I know.

When I get to the office, I breezely exclaim that traffic was murder, today.

How long will it be before I think of sex again?