I really enjoy wearing lingerie. I always have. When I was three years of age, I discovered a gorgeous floating pastel negligee belonging to my mother. It was very "Seventies" and very inviting. I would put it on over my clothes, with a pair of her shimmering stilettos and dark lipstick, and this is how I would watch Sesame Street and eat dinner. I am not kidding. Lingerie makes me feel beautiful and feminine. I like to look down and not be able to see my toes, on account of the new cleavage that my push-up bra has afforded me. It makes me feel like a woman, like me.

Then came my boyfriend. "What should we do for Valentine's?" I asked him recently. I decided to start musing about our plans for the lovers' holiday in advance. This way maybe we wouldn't be on the couch as usual, eating Indian takeout and flicking between 24 and Extreme Makeover.

"Doesn't matter," he replied, "as long as you wear a tight red bra, a red panty that shows half your bum, red stockings and tall shoes." Translation: We'll be on the couch, eating Indian takeout and flicking between 24 and Extreme Makeover. But I'll be wearing sexy lingerie. After three years I can now safely say that as long as lingerie is involved, my partner could care less how we spend our time together. Most of the time, I don't mind. But sometimes I wish I could just putter around the house in it without my other half thinking it's a sexual invitation. I like to put it on for me.