It was a sunny Friday afternoon and I met Charles after work with his weekend bag packed. For his 35th-birthday treat, I was taking him to a swanky London hotel overlooking Hyde Park.

He was delighted not to be getting on the packed commuter train back to our house in the suburbs and was very excited about a bit of spontaneous luxury.

We arrived in the grand reception hall, all marble floors, chandeliers and trendy sofas, and checked in to our room on the fourth floor. It was the perfect spot for a bit of debauchery, with its huge freestanding bath and enormous king-size bed covered in cushions.

I sent Charles off to wait in the bar downstairs while I got changed. I had a surprise for him - it was his birthday after all. While he was ordering his first cocktail, I unpacked my overnight bag. It was time to get dressed, Pretty Woman-style. Nothing too garish, I thought, just heels slightly higher than normal, pillar-box red lipstick with nail varnish to match, and a skirt that occasionally revealed the top of my suspenders.

We’d never dabbled in role-play before, but I knew Charles would be up for it and I thought it was about time we gave it a go, before middle-age really set in.

I sashayed downstairs and saw Charles at the far end of the bar. I pulled up a stool some way away, and waited. It was one of those dimly lit places that was populated by chaps in suits, many of whom were already well into a sizeable night out on their corporate credit cards.

I ordered a bellini and as I sipped it, I smiled down the length of the bar at Charles, batting my eyelids.

Charles grinned back, giddily, and ran his eyes down my legs. He was enjoying this, and had just stood up to come over when I felt a hand on my elbow, as the bar manager suddenly appeared by my side. He whispered in my ear, “Would you please follow me, madam?” and before I could protest, he squeezed my arm and led me out through the back of the bar and down a corridor into a tiny office somewhere in the bowels of the building.

My Pretty Woman disguise had obviously worked rather better than I’d anticipated. I turned, slightly flustered, and said: “It’s not what it looks like - I’m staying in room 431, Mrs Barnet.” But he just said: “I’ve heard it all before, madam. We know your type and it’s my job to escort you off the premises.”

I was just starting to think I was appearing in some awful farce, like the one the local am-dram lot used to put on in the village hall, when the phone rang. The bar manager said: “It seems your husband is waiting for you at reception.” He took me back upstairs and Charles and I were reunited.

The receptionist was extremely apologetic and sent a bottle of champagne up to our room, and far from dampening our spirits, the events of the past half-hour had very much put us in the mood - once we’d finished laughing, the evening continued most satisfactorily.

As we went down to breakfast, we were expecting some strange looks, but none of the staff batted an eyelid. They’d clearly seen it all before.

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