And so the interminable rain of summer has given way to crisp, bright, quasi-autumnal days.

(I know. This is England. It does weird things like that.)

It’s been a busy summer: the little guy and I holidayed with a dear friend in Riga (Latvia has now become his default destination whenever I query where he’s beetling off to), visited the abuelos in Spain – a trip that went much better than I could have predicted – and had countless jaunts to the seaside, the countryside and a host of assorted festivals.

In fact, just last week we were at a Scarecrow Festival – the highlights of which included the little fella ringing a church bell and posing next to a scarecrow version of Freddie Mercury … a sight that had to be seen to be believed.

The piglet is, of course, growing like a weed. He’s pretty much out of nappies, in the daytime at least, and prone to startling me with sentences like, “Mummy, it’s quite hot in here. Could you open the window so I can have a bit of cool air?”

He’s two. I mean, not even two-and-a-half. Can you imagine what he’s going to be like as a teenager?

Anyway, for the moment he’s delicious and delightful and funny and surprising, and getting more so every day.

And what of romance? Well, very little. Surprise, surprise.

My mingling with the opposite sex is sorely limited by my inability to leave the house. Or, to put it another way, unless I happen to meet Prince Charming at the supermarket checkout, I’m scuppered.

Since I’m officially done with dating sites, I’ve signed up for a speed dating soirée, to try and force my hand: I’m hoping that seeing the whites of their eyes will induce me to look more favourably on the catalogue of candidates up for selection.

I’m steadfastly refusing to look at any of the participants’ profiles ahead of the event, though. I know myself too well: I’ll have talked myself out of every single one of them before I even get through the door.

Yep, things have been quiet on the western front, to say the least. The only hint of romance – the merest twinge – has come from a most unexpected quarter. In fact, it’s such an unexpected quarter that I’m keeping it verrrrry close to my chest.

But … you know when someone seeks you out and repeatedly texts you and there’s nothing particularly untoward in the content of those texts … except that the person had no real reason to be texting you in the first place? Well that’s how it is.

In fact, when someone asks you if you consider it “inappropriate” that they’re texting you, well … that almost suggests that they do … doesn’t it?

Maybe I’m reading far too much into it, and maybe he just wants to be friends – do men ever do that? I’ve got no idea anymore – and discuss life, the universe and everything, but … my famously ineffectual instinct suspects a more amorous intention.

Anyway, the Phantom Texter is an attractive gentleman, and eligible in many ways but, unless I’m very much mistaken, as married as married can be. And, as I’ve mentioned before, I’m not in the business of stealing other ladies’ men.

Eligible gentlemen may be in extremely short supply, but when I find one, I want him all to myself. Surely that’s not too much for a girl to ask … is it?