It’s always difficult to jump back in the dating pool when you have ended a torrid affair. You need to time heal, to rethink your life and priorities, and, more importantly, your political alliances. While I’ll always love Vladimir, I must admit there is a new contender for stealing for heart: Nicolas Sarkozy.

He may not be a Judo expert or possess Vladimir’s assassination skills, but there’s something about that dagger-like widow’s-peak of his that says: “This is a man who will make his country men work 40+ hours a week like the rest of us sorry slobs”, and any politician who speaks at the G8 summit knee-walkin’ drunk, obviously must be skilled and gifted lover.

I admit it, I’m in it for the good old fashion romance of it all, and plus, he’s so fronch. And then there’s the name: Sarkozy. Say it with me: Sar-COZY…mmmm…

This could be the start of something, it could be the start of nothing, but it is the thrill of someone new. Someone who is not a bad boy, but possibly possesses the same stubborn streak as I do, time will tell, that, and the conclusion of the perpetual transportation strikes in Paris.

And when he looks out at me, as I know he does, over those television cameras, with that deliciously dark stare he uses to seduce the media, I find myself breathless, leaning back in my chair whispering “mais oui”.