So, now it's my husband's turn. It was bound to happen sooner or later, I suppose.

Just as I was asked if I am Celine, Kristin or Samantha, now people have started to ask him, "Are you James, Paul or Harry? You can't be Carlos or Nick - can you?"

He grins and tells them that he's actually a secret cross-dresser and, for a second, he's given a funny look before the inevitable laughter ensues.

Let's put the record straight. My beloved is all of the above characters from Tea at Sam's and he's none of them. This is the paradox.

As we've been together for an eternity, it's inevitable that a smidgen of his character drops into James, Paul, Harry, Nick and maybe even Carlos. But, in reality he is none of them.

It must be truly awful to be married to a writer. He has to put up with my preoccupation when I'm lost in a story, my feelings of despair when suffering from writers' block as well as the elation when I read a good review.

Then there's the frustration that I know he feels when I ask him for the umpteenth time what a PDF file is or how to download a picture onto a website.

But the worst of all, the sheer look of, "I'm a husband, get me out of here!" is when I ask him to just listen for a wee moment while I read him a new chapter.

No wonder he needs a shed. Did I see hear him ask for planning permission to extend it into a permanent dwelling the other day?"