Ruby Room

When your 42 year-old husband ups and leaves you for a 21 year-old law student, it's big news in a tiny upper class Devonshire village.

A reputation in tatters and a ruined woman financially, I had to find a way of earning money to keep my house, car and possessions. The debtors were on my doorstep and bailiffs were threatening to take everything I owned, it was time to pick myself up off the floor and get pro-active.

However, ever since I'd met my husband 20 years ago, I'd never had a job outside of the home. All I knew was how to starch a shirt, peel potatoes and polish silver - skills unlikely to pay my bills.

Then one night a middle aged bachelor from the village came over to console me and after one two many glasses of wine, he made his move.

I was taken aback and anger that he'd taken advantage of my vulnerable state combined with Dutch courage brought me to slap him hard across the face. But strangely, he seemed to like it.

He told me to do it again. So without thinking, I did. He laughed and flipped over onto his knees and told me to strike him across the bottom and call him a naughty boy. Which again, I did...but this time I was the one enjoying it.

Getting into the swing of it I went to the kitchen, found a spatula and ran upstairs to slip into some stilettos. Now I could really act the minx.

The next day I was devastatingly embarrassed and hungover. However, he turned up later in the evening, completely unfazed, flashed £100 in crisp notes in my face and said "I want you to do exactly what you did last night, but harder. Oh, and by the way, so does Joss at number 47."

Although I had my reservations, I surprised myself by being liberal and looking at it simply as a business proposition. When I made it clear that no actual intercourse would take place, he looked as though I'd suggested something completely bizarre, which given the circumstances I thought quite amusing.

"I don't want to have sex with you," he said "I just want you to thwack me and tell me off for being a bad boy. That's what dominatrix do."

When I heard that word I felt powerful and sexy. To hell with my reputation, I'd keep the wolf from the door by beating the beast into submission!

I now deal with around 40 clients, mostly from the village, all who've been enlisted through word of mouth. I cater for everyone from nappy and bonnet wearing policemen to the stiletto sucking bin man who likes to be told he is a dirty dog.

I just wonder if my ex husband is having as much fun with his little strumpet. Something tells me he's not...

Aside from being Blighty's most prolific celebrity blogger and a superstar songstress to boot, Lily Allen has also been busy developing more than one trademark look during her meteoric rise to fame. Check out her style evolution...

We adore celebs but, oooh we like to loathe them too. Saucers of milk at the ready girls, it's time to get catty with our countdown of A-list ladies we most love to hate...

I stumbled upon a rather odd book in the library last weekend, entitled something strangely personal like 'Why you're a deeply miserable mess and afraid of everything.'

It seemed a little assuming to say the least. However, on reflection I can see why the author thought it okay to make such an observation because, as a nation, we are depressed and downright terrified.

This isn't surprising when you consider the fact that we are bombarded every day with scientific evidence concluding that we are less attractive than we were 50 years ago as well as fatter, smellier and more stupid.

Oh and of course we are all going to die very soon from either a serious illness, obesity, binge drinking or smoking unless we pull our scabby fungal infected socks up.

It seems the scientists are conspiring to make us feel desperate and worried about every aspect of our lives - from the lard laden goop we supposedly consume to the probability of contracting a deadly virus to evidence that we will end up living alone, dribbling into our cornflakes and with only 2.5 friends (including the cat) in the entire world.

But aren't we perhaps just a little over-sensitive? Our grandparents' generation had a bath once a week, coped with epidemics of polio and diphtheria, had to survive on rationing, rarely ate meat and hand stitched blankets FOR FUN.

Yet they were a far happier bunch than we. Maybe because they were healthier both in body and mind or maybe, just maybe because they weren't so self-obsessed. When there are bombs showering your street, freedom as you know it is on the verge of being destroyed and your husband is at war, the possibility that you're not as good looking or as slim as your great great auntie Edna probably doesn't faze you much.

It's rare for a grumpy old woman like me to say this but perhaps it's time to stop listening to the mumbo jumbo, calm our nerves, take a chill pill (yes,the kind that have no side effects in case you were worried) and put on a happy face. Things mightn't be as bad those media hungry lab rats make them seem...

You won't find Brad Pitt in this list. These curiously alluring men can whip us up into a lusty whirl and yet leave us with a lingering sense of unshakable embarrassment. Leave us your comments and tell us which stars you are peculiarly passionate for...

I hate customer service call centres. I especially hate them when I know full well that the person on the other end of the phone is going to be as useful as a bag of sick.

It's not that I despise the staff themselves, in fact I often feel sorry for them. The companies who employ these underpaid minions must believe that they are incapable of making an informed decision based on individual circumstances and thus give them a blunt and patronising script to abide by.

They also think that we customers are either idiots or evil swindlers, out to take advantage of their unsuspecting staff. It's so nice to feel valued.

Upon calling one such call centre this morning I was filled with my usual sense of foreboding. I am with a bank that allegedly prides itself on the level of service they provide to their customers and aims to ensure that our experience is stress-free and nothing short of orgasmic. However, this is a blatant lie.

After the phone ringing for around 10 seconds I was greeted by a recorded voice begrudgingly apologising for the wait and sarcastically claiming that my call was, like, sooo important to them. I was also apparently stupid for calling at a very busy time of day (6am) and if I wasn't too ashamed of myself I could hold and perhaps someone might bother to answer my call after they'd spoken to the other nine morons in the queue. Then it asked whether I'd ever considered taking out house insurance.

Not content with making you feel like a complete imbecile, the 'hold' music was enough to drive you doolally. Today it was one verse and chorus of Katy Perry's, Hot 'n' Cold, warbled by a pub singer with adenoids. Upon hearing this approximately 15 times, I seriously considered bludgeoning myself to death with the phone.

Finally a lovely sounding lady picked up the phone and announced, in the manner of a phone-in gameshow host, that I'd got through. I was delighted. Ecstatic in fact. Then she said: "I'm sorry for the wait, please hold," after which she immediately hung up and the line went dead. Brilliant. Maybe I'll wait for them to call me.

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We probe fifteen fellas to get a rare glimpse into what men really want...

As the slightly dishevelled, strapping hunk from advertising slunk up to my desk I began to feel every muscle in my body tighten with the blood flow to my head seemingly blocked somewhere below my knees.

Like in a laughably cheesy movie he appeared to move in slow motion, the air conditioning ruffling his locks slightly as he passed under it.

By the time he plonked his peachy perfect posterior down in front of me terror had caused my face to contort and fix itself into an look similar to that of a bulldog chewing a wasp.

I had lusted after Damian for nine months and following many failed attempts to engage him in conversation at Christmas parties and post work drinks I decided, in my inebriated state the night before, to announce my love for him to the world. Standing on the bar of our local pub. With no shoes on and lipstick on my teeth. This visit to my desk therefore, could only be to serve me with a restraining order.

Whilst I was dying a slow and excruciatingly embarrassing death in front of my love god however, I somehow managed to hear above the din of humiliation and hangover ringing in my ears, that I was wrong.

The glorious man had not only found my declaration charming and comical but he'd also come over to return my shoes that I'd discarded to mount the bar.

As he uttered the magical words "would you like to go out sometime?" I felt lightheaded. Believing I was simply giddy with joy I leant over to take his hand and accept the astonishing invitation.

As I moved however, I felt the colour drain from my face and upon opening my mouth to speak, I violently convulsed, heaved and projectile puked all over him. The stale stench of sambuca filled the air and I knew at once, my foul hangover had timed its moment of destruction perfectly.

What happened next is thankfully a blur but strangely enough, he's never visited my desk again to confirm that date.