Putting aside the state of my lady parts for a moment, the rub with the whole middle-aged dating thing isn’t solely because I have become used to a single way of life. Even in my youth, I was never in a bra-clutching state looking for a mate.

As a child, I had little trouble being still. I could do nothing for hours. At least, the adults called it nothing. But people-watching from my bedroom window, re-reading favourite passages from overdue library books, or writing love letters to boys who ignored me in hallways didn’t feel like nothing.

An overhead snippet of conversation hit me between the beans and biscuits one Tuesday in Tesco. It was that "It's never too late to start a diary." Or journal, as my American side of the family will insist. Admittedly, I've heard this sentiment a bunch of times since we last met, but I heard it differently this time  — and I haven't been able to unhear it.

The day I became invisible, I was wearing a button-up cardigan, red tartan wool skirt, and sensible flats that whispered, “Go home and do better” with every step. This was my costume of choice as the restaurant server guided me to a murky table near the restrooms. “Dining alone, madam?” Only my bladder gushed a grateful thanks.

He was nice enough, but I felt exposed during our therapy sessions, so I used an inflated sense of intellect as a fig leaf. I challenged his every assertion instead of listening and engaging with what was being said. Our time together became a battleground in my mind, where I was determined to pass whatever test this was.

As a 15-year-old Afro-Caribbean schoolgirl, I yearned for ‘television hair.’ I coveted the locks of Charlie’s Angels’ Farah Fawcett, platinum blonde pop stars, and my Caucasian friends. I ached for hair that shone, moved, and returned to home base without having to wrestle it into submission when caught in even the puniest of winds.

Unfairness first came to me in the unremarkable blocks of flats where I grew up in North West London. Not unfair because my siblings and I were poorer than the other kids. We had long ago accepted there was no money for the delightful crap other people enjoyed.

The last time my hand trembled over a love letter to someone was in high school. Pen, paper, spit on a government-approved stamp, and a red postbox all played leading roles. I loved letters: pen-pal letters, newsy letters, and misleading letters to home from, well, anywhere. But my love letter was to Peter, the bad boy of our school year.

When I first fell pregnant, my mother and other elders were happy for me but cautious. They were anxious that I didn’t get ahead of myself and agreed with the world that I shouldn’t reveal a new pregnancy straight away, “in case.” The word miscarriage is routinely substituted for ellipsis and knowing looks.