Inside the door, our suitcases are waiting for us. I look at Daniel’s suitcase with all the disgust I’d give to the man himself. I begrudge every second I spent booking this honeymoon for him. Every trip to the shops to buy him the things he needed. I’m so pissed off that I packed his case for him. Not just because I’m realising that I did everything for this wedding, but because of the implication. I thought he was just lazy or out of his depth. Instead, it seems as if he just really, really didn’t care. That he was too caught up in Eva to even think about what the rest of our lives together was going to look like.

I turn my nose up and snub his stupid suitcase, heading into the dining room (where my tiny work desk is squashed in) and retrieve my laptop and charger. I place them inside my carry-on bag, just in case I need a distraction on my solo flight. Then I head into our newly finished bathroom – and when I say newly finished, I mean the grouting around the bath wasn’t even dry when I wanted to have a bath last week.

Looking in the mirror gives me a fright. Who is that person staring back at me? That sad-looking woman with the bright red eyes (they’re usually green, I swear), with make-up smeared all over her face and snot still running from her nose – because, honestly, I don’t even know what to do about it, it just keeps coming and coming.

People always tell me that I don’t look my age. I’ve always wondered whether it’s just down to the unique sense of style that may be exclusively mine. I have a real fondness for strange accessories – kooky stuff that you don’t find on the high-street, like necklaces with a doll’s eye hanging from the chain (which actually closes when you lie down) or earrings made to look like fairground fish in bags of water. It’s hard to look your (nearly) thirty-two years of age when you have fairground fish earrings.

I’m an above average 5´ 6˝ and thanks to my pre-wedding diet I managed to rein in my curves a little, which left me feeling more confident, but still suitably ‘thicc’, as the kids say. I was so full of confidence this morning, so excited to have my picture taken in my beautiful dress. Now I’m just looking at this crying monster in the mirror and wondering whether, without the make-up, the long blonde hair and all the distracting accessories, I really do look my age, whether the little lines I’m starting to notice around my eyes are beginning to show, whether my natural boobs are lower than they used to be. God, I could look in the mirror and find fault with myself for hours right now if I had the time.

I grab a face wipe and begin to remove the 150 pounds face I had carefully applied by an incredibly skilled make-up artist just a couple of hours ago. At some point, during my initial hysterics, I have turned myself into a Picasso portrait. I have eyeliner on my chin, lipstick on my forehead – the oh-so-subtle shimmer that was applied to my eyelids has somehow bred, covering every inch of my face, making me look like a sad red disco ball. My hair still looks flawless, at least, with my beautiful, long blonde fishtail plait still in place, hanging down from one side of my face. So not a complete waste of money, hey?