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Many, many moons ago when I was young and pretending to be single, I once spent an illicit weekend in the alleged shag palace that is Brighton on England’s south coast.

As with most of these things, this weekend had been made more exciting by its forbidden nature. He was you see, ahem, slightly attached (if living with your girlfriend really counts as such these days), whilst I was deep in the murky death throes of a 2 year old “friendship”.

Nonetheless, though it now shames me to admit it, we’d both been eager partners in the weekend’s planning. Having met romantically by the vodka luge at a crap work do, we’d moved swiftly through flirtatious water-cooler action into more erotic text messages than a heated Beckham could handle, and finally reached the exchange of underwear in the internal post: quite literally, it seemed, we fancied the pants off each other.

Alas, his pants were probably the most exciting thing about him (and even they were part of a faded 3-pack, circa 1985). For, although initially thrilled by the offer attached to his smalls of a rendezvous by Nash’s Pavilion splendor, the weekend was, as it turns out…well…quite crap really.

For, after weeks of erotic prohibition, we arrived separately at the B&B booked by my would-be-lover. Whilst I was stuck in weekend engineering works, he’d texted news of his arrival: hence, I dashed excitedly up to the room. Only to be greeted by a candlewick bedspread, the erotic smell of mothballs and the sight of my lover: newly denuded and in possession of unmistakably bandy legs.

Jeez. Perhaps it was the sea air, the circling seagulls, or maybe the strange stench of camphor, but there’s really nothing like a bow-legged lover standing in a proxy of your grandmother’s bedroom to make a girl think twice about consummating an affair.

In desperation I discovered a sudden desire to visit the Sea Life Centre, and forced asaid lover away from the charms of the Dunroamin B&B and into the realms of Brighton’s deep water tanks. At first it was a relief to be away from the bedroom and amongst the safer world of piranhas, but all of a sudden I was hit by a cold, slimy sensation whilst leaning over the fish. I glanced up to see that someone had clearly thrown a full bucket of what appeared to be whitebait into my hair.

Fearing retribution from my intended lover’s girlfriend, I took a closer look. And yes, there really were whitebait. Many, many, many whitebait. And indeed, clearly all over my hair: all slimy and giggly, running through my locks with unmistakable delight.

Lover had, by this time, scarpered, leaving me to face a Sea Life centre employee; paralyzed with embarrassment, but adamant that I had got in the way of feeding time and his need to perform the stroking trick on the stingrays, if only I would move, please madam.

So, lost for lovers and for dignity, I ran for it. Really, really ran for it; wafting small fish from my ‘do as I made for the station, all thoughts of old bandy leg wiped from my mind…

Looking back, I kind of wish I had a photo from that moment: disappointed in lust, but clearly charged into action by odd sea-life. I guess it’s partly because I learnt an important lesson that weekend: I may never again go for a work affair, may still smell vaguely of fish and break out in hives every time I even think of the south coast of England, but hey – my lordy, you should see the shine on my hair from those whitebait…