I've never been much of a John Wayne fan, something of an admission for a girl who has five different versions of 'Jolene' on her iPod, and a nom de plume with the word 'pony' in it. He has small feet, for starters, raising the big question of why he went about calling himself Big Leggy.

Although, whatever the reason, it might account for the curious, lopsided gait. Plus, I've always thought of him as kind of a man's man. You know, the way he growls at bad guys, throws back his whiskey, inexplicably orders people to get off their horse and drink their milk. But of late, I've been forced to reconsider his rather brutish attraction.

It's largely because of that Technicolor classic, The Quiet Man. If you haven't seen it (and I recommend that you do, not just now, but later, maybe after you've read this), it's loosely based on Shakespeare's much earlier and non-celluloid classic, The Taming of the Shrew. For years, the premise of the movie bothered me, since it's essentially about how an American ex-boxer Alpha male marries a feisty, flame-haired Irish woman and sets about making her submit to his will until she cracks and falls in love with him.

It's not exactly a feminist favourite. There's a great scene, one in which the stunning Maureen O'Hara slams the bedroom door in her husband's face, making it clear that she has no intention of offering up her heart to him, nor indeed anything else either, only to watch it smashed effortlessly apart as he wades in, manfully asserting the unforgettable line, 'There'll be no locks and bolts between us Mary Kate except those in your own mercenary little heart.' At which point, he hurls her on the bed and, we can only assume, takes her roughly in his arms and gives her a good, hard seeing to. And it does the trick nicely, because afterwards, she's nice as pie, smitten, a purring pussycat.

And this resonates for me. Because I've been feeling like a bitch myself lately. A veritable two-headed beast. Having fallen deeply and desperately in love, I've suffered something of a setback. A crisis. It's like I woke up one morning and realised that I'd gone too far, handed over the most precious thing I have – my achey breaky heart, no less – and it scared the life out of me. Leave myself wide open? What was I thinking? Why would I make myself vulnerable to this beautiful man?

And I have set about resisting him with some skilful sabotage. I get that little inner demon on speed dial and book him for a couple of sessions of trident poking action. I make Mr Right pay for all the previous hurt and suffering I've endured at the hands of being in a relationship. I attempt to push him away, test his patience, provoke his wrath, challenge the depth of his affection, question our compatibility, make him see that I am not the balanced, sane individual oozing with confidence he imagined, but a harpy with a sore head and a pair of crooked, slightly singed wings.

And clearly, it's not his fault. He hasn't changed. He's still attentive and loving. Brings me bars of Green and Blacks and bunches of flowers. Slips his arms around me in the street. Fills my ears with reassuring words. He may be perplexed and bewildered. He may brace himself on the other end of the phone and take a moment on occasion. He may even have a quick flick through Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, nod his head and murmur, 'Oh yeah, women are barking'. But the great thing is, he's still here. Because it's actually about my rubbish. And he's not letting me get away with it.

What does he do? He stands firm and tells me it's all going to be alright. In fact, it's not just alright. He tells me he loves me more than he did yesterday and the day before that. In his own way, he's doing a John Wayne on me. Except he's approaching it in a much less brutish, and quieter, more patient way than, well, The Quiet Man.

He's not breaking down doors to get access to me and my tricky heart, although certainly being hurled onto the duvet, pinned down in a passionate embrace, and being the not terribly unwilling recipient of heart-stopping kisses and delicious orgasms works wonders, pacifying as it does my indignant little inner demon quite nicely.

Bit by bit, Mr Right is taming me, the little shrew he's fallen in love with. And quite despite myself, I am starting to let him. That smile on Maureen O'Hara's face? I have one too, thank you. I'm even starting to look a bit dreamy and whistle. Big Leggy said something else in a movie once, and that was 'Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway'. So, I guess that's my plan. I'm going to put my foot in the stirrups, swing my leg over, and saddle up.