Istanbul has been good for my soul.

Arriving at dawn and watching the morning light spread gold across the water, I can’t help but feel … soothed.

Later, I’ll be assaulted by the sights and sounds of the Spice Market in full swing: stallholders offering a morsel of rose-scented lokum or sticky, nutty kadayif; simit sellers plying their wares, the sesame-coated rings piled high upon their heads; eager trinket sellers insistently offering the best, the cheapest, the finest quality baubles…

… but for now, I’m enjoying the cool peace of the morning, punctuated only by the greedy screech of the fish-hungry gulls that swoop and wheel around the half-empty ferry.

For once, I’m not travelling alone, and my (male) travel buddy provides easy-going company, as well as welcome protection from the unwelcome attentions a solo blonde tourist typically attracts.

We spend a couple of days eagerly pacing the length and breadth of Istanbul. But as the week wears on, the temperature rises steadily and soon we’re content to laze in a shady corner with our noses in our respective books or drinking endless glasses of sweet, black tea in our favourite hangout – a leafy outdoor café overlooking the Bosphorus.

With tea in hand, and a light breeze gently ruffling my hair, I feel truly content.

Although it’s blazing hot and I’ve spent most of my time looking pink, sweaty and unappealing, the change of scene has done me good. I can’t say I’ve forgotten all about Uni Boy and my sudden demotion from the position of part-time squeeze, but I’m certainly able to view things in a more positive light.

Travelling always helps me to put things in perspective. With my mind occupied by new sights, sounds and smells, there’s no space for unhappy thoughts or mournful musings. And I can’t help but wonder if contentment breeds contentment, because when I check my email, I’ve got several affectionate messages from Uni Boy.

Puzzling, but not unpleasant.

On the last night, my travel buddy sits on the terrace with a glass of wine while I go scouting for food. It’s my first solo venture, and I soon get a taste of the luxurious protection I’ve been enjoying simply by being in male company: I’ve barely walked 500 metres, but I’ve been approached, petted and flattered by three separate gentlemen, all eager to show me their carpets, their plates, their various assorted trinkets.

Finally, I make it to my destination. As I wait for my food, the cashier flashes me his most winning smile.

“How many people are in Istanbul?”

At first, I think he’s quizzing me on my local knowledge, but then I realise he’s asking me if I’m travelling alone.

“Two,” I reply, holding two fingers aloft, for clarity.

“Where is my friend?” he asks, looking momentarily downcast.

“My friend is at home, waiting for me,” I say.

He beams.

“When my friend is sleep, you come here!” he says, triumphantly.

I smile politely as I decline his kind offer, and again as he attempts to snare my affections with a free orange juice. Insistently waving away his suggestions of a midnight tryst, I finally make it onto the street, where I fix my gaze on the pavement as I navigate the various hawkers and traders vying for my attention.

Back on the terrace, the food is soon devoured and I decide to check my email. Before I know it, I’m chatting to Uni Boy, and we’re flirting outrageously.

“When are you back?” he writes.

“Tomorrow evening, late,” I reply.

“See you then?” he says.

I hesitate. I know I should say no. But the devil on my shoulder is shouting louder than the angel, and my tragic addiction to hugs and kisses needs feeding. In truth, my internal struggle lasts … ooh, about five seconds.

“Sure,” I reply, berating myself only slightly. “See you then.”

And I smile.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you … the sun!

Yes, after weeks and weeks and weeks of desperately damp dullness, we’ve finally been given the chance to bask in glorious, golden waves of warmth. And about time, too: any more rain and I’d have put Noah on speed dial.

Yup, there’s little more cheering than a few rays of sun. It’s fascinating to watch how we pasty Brits unfurl like flowers, turning our faces to the unfamiliar glow and exposing as much milky-white flesh as possible. What’s more, we start to smile. Even at strangers. Weird, no?

Although I’ll pretty much talk to anyone, at any time, I’m just as sun-crazed as the next (wo)man. It’s no exaggeration to say that I run on solar power: full of energy and life in the scant summer months, I struggle my way through the gloom the rest of the time. So when the sun comes out, I’m as happy as a pig in poop.

At the moment, though, my energy’s on turbo boost because – at the risk of being a soppy old stick – not only is the sun shining (however temporarily), I’m also being showered with affection on a daily basis. Who could ask for more?

But even though it’s utter bliss to be customarily kissed and cuddled, if I’m honest, the benefits are more than just snog-related: this little adventure has worked wonders for my self-esteem.

Whilst I know this is only a temporary arrangement, it’s convinced me that I’m not on the scrap heap; that there is someone who finds me loveable and is happy to pass extended periods of time in my company. (And thank goodness for that, ‘cause for a while there, I was starting to lose hope…)

It’s nice to take someone else’s feeling into consideration – from what to have for dinner to where to go on the weekend, it’s all a bit more fun when you’re thinking for two.

I’ve discovered I like having someone to care for; I enjoy learning new preferences and predilections, and my diet’s improved because I’m cooking a proper meal rather than hoovering a sandwich on the hoof.

In short, what’s not to like?

Best of all, I’m not even fearful of The End, because there’s a pre-defined cut-off point that’s not dependent on how appealing or attentive I am. It’s out of my hands.

Nothing I can say or do will change the circumstances, so this little bubble of happiness will remain intact, unsullied by future arguments and disagreements. For once, I’m not afraid of cocking it up, which means I can really relax and enjoy it.

And maybe that’s the bigger lesson for me. Maybe if I took the same carefree approach with all my relationships, maybe – just maybe – I wouldn’t be on my own right now.

Hmmm. There’s something to think about for the future. But right now I’ve got other things to think about…

If you’ll excuse me, there’s a hug with my name on it here. I don’t want to keep it waiting.

Ooh, it’s hard to open my eyes this morning.

I’m on my way to work, but my brain thinks it’s still tucked up in bed. Not even the warm air and morning sunshine can clear my head. It’s definitely time for a coffee.

I’m rummaging in my bag for my purse, when I remember the voucher I’d been given just a few days ago – a voucher for a freebie espresso in the coffee bar next door. Perfect.

More than ready for my caffeine fix, I breeze into the bar to claim my spoils. The barista (no, not the Sexy Barista) is about to set the coffee machine in motion, when his colleague says to him, in Italian,

“Has she filled it in?”

Now, if you don’t speak Italian, you might not know that ‘she’ is also the polite form of ‘you’. So his question could mean, “Has she filled it in?” or, “Have you filled it in?”

Even though it’s quite clear that he was addressing his colleague, not me, his question was quite brusquely phrased, so Barista No. 2 blushes when I reply – in Italian – that no, I haven’t filled it in… and what exactly was I supposed to be filling in, anyway?

“Ah … um … sorry! I didn’t mean you … I was talking to him,” he stammers. “You have to fill in your name and email address on the back of the voucher.”

I turn my voucher over. It’s completely blank.

Smiling apologetically, he hands me another voucher, which has neat little boxes for my details, and a pen.

“Sorry,” he says again. “I didn’t have you down as Italian.”

“No,” I reply. “That’s because I’m not.”

He looks confused for a moment, then recovers his composure and slips into flirt mode: oh, but I speak Italian so well – how come? Where am I from? Where in Italy did I live? For how long? What took me to Italy? How marvellously I speak Italian!

I can’t help but smile.

I answer all his questions as I sip my coffee, then thank them both and wish them a good day.

“Wait! Wait!” he says, as I head towards the door. “Let me give you another voucher then you’ll come again tomorrow.”

He hands it over, in flirt overdrive now, and bids me goodbye.

Thanking him, I saunter elegantly off, praying that my killer heels, the highly polished floor and my ever-ready Aura of Disaster let me get out of the door without any major mishaps. But for once, my luck holds and I make it out unscathed.

As I set off for work again my phone pings, announcing the arrival of a text message. It’s from Uni Boy, and it contains just three words:

“See you tonight?”

Suddenly I’m wide awake and there’s a spring in my step, not to mention a big, stupid grin on my face. If I were in a cartoon, there’s be songbirds around my shoulders and small, soft animals nuzzling my hand.

But, of course, this state of affairs can’t last; there has to be a fly in the ointment.

The fun and frolics with Uni Boy are on a timer that’s counting down all too quickly to a point in the very near future. Yes, in just a few short weeks, Uni Boy’s work will take him overseas, where he’ll remain for goodness knows how long.

But I refuse to think about that yet. For now, the sun’s out, my heart’s happy and my soul’s full of joy … I’m luxuriating in his company and I’m flipping well going to enjoy it, however long or little it lasts.

Sometimes, you have to smile at fate. Especially when fate’s smiling at you.

To be honest, the day had started pretty badly: I’d just found out that The One I Almost Married is about to become a daddy – which provoked mixed feelings, to say the least.

Actually, to say mixed feelings is a bit of a lie. It mostly provoked just one feeling: a tragic, wailing sentiment of, “Waaaaaahhhhhhhhh! Not fair!!!” Childish, I know, but sometimes you have to give way to your inner toddler and just let it grizzle.

In fact, I sniffle and sob intermittently for a good couple of hours. Even when I stop, I’m feeling pretty sorry for myself: it seems so unfair that someone who didn’t particularly want children should be on the road to domestic bliss, when I’m still all on my lonesome. In short, I’m miffed that he’s happier than I am.

As I think this, I realise what a big baby I’m being.

Sure, he’s got something I’d like, but then so have plenty of other people. It’s not the end of the world. In fact, the only thing that’s making me unhappy here is my own good self. I can choose to wallow in my self-pity, or I can choose to look on the bright side.

I take a moment to reflect.

The One I Almost Married had a fairly low tolerance level for troublesome noise, and also a reasonably short temper. I picture him holding a screaming child…

… and suddenly, something changes inside of me. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like a tragedy. It feels like a lucky escape.

I hold on to that thought before it can get away and I decide that tonight’s going to be a celebration. I’m going to hit the town and paint it all the colours of the rainbow! My mood is buoyant and I’m ready for a party, so I put on my sexiest dress, my slinkiest heels and a generous squoosh of my favourite feelgood scent.

Tonight, ladies and gentlemen, I am radiant, and this town isn’t big enough to hold me.

I make a couple of calls, and before long, a taxi arrives. I make it to the station with moments to spare, and tearing down the platform, I jump on the train; I’m in London within the hour.

As I push through the crowded bar, looking for my friends, my spirits are high and my soul is sparkling. Everyone’s in a good mood, the music is great, and there’s plenty of animated banter. The Darkly Intriguing Man From The Gym texts to ask where I am, but I’m fed up of the lack of progress in that corner, so I fire off a quick reply then switch off my phone.

The group is large, and there are a few people I don’t know. I start introducing myself, but as I offer my hand to a particularly handsome guy in a dark red shirt, my friends start laughing.

“You don’t recognise him, do you?”

I look harder. Oh my goodness! No wonder I didn’t recognise him!

In our uni days, this guy was chubby, spotty and wore clothes three sizes too big for him. He was always a nice guy, but now he’s lost the chubbiness of youth and is looking pretty sharp. In fact, he’s lean, broad shouldered and sartorially splendid.

Uni Boy has really grown up.

Laughing, I apologise and we start to catch up on the news; it’s been over a decade, so there’s plenty to say. He tells me about his travels, his job, who he’s still in touch with, who’s got kids and who married who. He compliments me on my outfit and I tell him he’s looking pretty good, too.

Around us, the conversation flows, drinks are bought and passed around … and still we keep talking. The volume in the bar increases; everyone is shouting and laughing, so we shout to hear ourselves above the din.

And then, something miraculous happens.

I can’t actually see the cherubim and seraphim hanging round, but I’m sure they must be there. Because one minute Uni Boy and I are chatting casually, the next we’re kissing and laughing and kissing some more.

The thought of kissing him had never even crossed my mind before, but now excitement is fizzing inside me like shaken champagne. Who knew it would be so much fun? In fact, it’s so much fun that we talk and laugh (and kiss) until four o’clock in the morning. Giddy with excitement and drunk on his kisses, I’m as content as a cat on a radiator.

I may have berated his arrow-slinging in the past, but on this occasion I take a moment to send a silent thank you Cupid and his erratic archery. For once, he’s right on time.

I might not have a baby and a ready-made family waiting for me at home, but as consolation prizes go, I think I got one of the best.