‘WE WERE driving to a wedding somewhere the wrong side of Sonoma, California. It was getting dark, we had jet lag, and I knew it wasn’t a good time to think about sex. But I couldn’t help it. Luke and I had only been together for a few months and the novelty was showing no signs of wearing off. Our chemistry was amazing: I was in love, he was in love, everything was going to be happy ever after and sex would always be plentiful. Plus, I could show off my beautiful new boyfriend to all my annoying schoolfriends.

So I was excited. The journey to San Francisco had been quite heated: kissing on the plane, kissing at arrivals and kissing in the car-hire queue. Three hours in a car to our hotel seemed like a long, long time. Even in the flashy convertible that we had splashed out on for our little American séjour. And, of course, everything seems sexier when you’re driving across the Golden Gate Bridge, wind in your hair, CD player blaring.

I looked across at Luke’s handsome profile and it occurred to me that up until now, we’d set a good precedent of not being boring bedroom lovers. We’d messed around in all sorts of unusual places: the shower, a public disabled toilet, the walk-in cupboard at my office, a pub garden and, very nearly, a train. But one significant venue we hadn’t yet ticked off the list was a moving Chevrolet.

As I reflected on this terrible omission, I also noticed that the city was behind us and the traffic was thinning out. The novelty of being in a big, flashy American car was waning. Our journey needed spicing up, Hugh Grant and Divine Brown-style.

As we finally turned off the motorway onto an almost deserted country road, I decided it was time to rock and roll. I leant over and started unbuttoning Luke’s jeans.

He looked surprised, then nervous, then quite pleased, all in the same split second. So I carried on, as if we were in some seedy movie. It was all going incredibly well and it looked as if I’d conclude my business without the slightest mishap. Then, Luke, in a fit of ecstatic passion, failed to notice a well-signed bend, drove off the road and pitched us headlong down a bank, through some sort of arable crop and into a ditch.

They say men can’t multitask, and it might be harsh, but I had proved conclusively that it was true. It took a while for the shock to subside and to check that we were not horrifically injured, which, miraculously, we weren’t. Although the car was stuck, we were both delighted to be alive, and Luke was delighted I’d screamed rather than gritted my teeth as we’d hurtled off the road.

It took two hours to get help, another hour to reach the hotel in our tow truck and a whole day to iron out all the red tape and convince the hire-car company that Luke had had a sneezing attack. Which left only one more day for finishing what we’d started and going to the wedding. We managed to achieve both simultaneously, ticking another challenge, less dangerous, but more scandalous, off the list: sex in a church. Although, if we’re being strict, it was a hall off the side of the building.

We’re married now, and life’s just not as exciting any more. In a way, that’s a good thing.’