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Becky Milligan, Radio 4 reporter, returns – and she’s been smitten by a tall, pale stranger.

A small adjustment can often solve a much bigger problem and bring in much joy.  But the catch is that often you have no clue what this small adjustment is, until you have done the adjusting. If only I had seen it before, if only I had thought of it, I would have adjusted immediately. But things being as they are I didn’t see it, even though it was ogling me, spitting me in the eye, licking my face.

Do you get it, as our political leaders like to say, do you GET it?

Now the adjustment is complete I am happy. No crashing kids, no hunching over the cooker, no dreary jobs-worth can shoot me down because the skin of my happiness is made of impenetrable stuff.

And I can tell you, with rock solid confidence, that I am blissfully happy. Can I go further? Yes, I am in love with my small adjustment. I am at the start of something new, I have lost all perspective, I drag my feet, I am dazed and glazed with my tongue lolling out. Oh my luck, my joy, my word. What serendipity brought us together, what charmed key words did I enter into Google which took me to his image.

I am irritating the hell out of everyone. No one wants to talk to me in case I bang on about him, again, but I don’t mind, it’s still so new. I want to touch him all the time, his long, narrow body, his clean lines, his sparkling, mysterious interior. If he was a talker I would be scintillated. He is the perfect companion. I don’t know how long this state of euphoria will last, at the moment my money is on eternity.

And he works. That’s new. He may be the silent type but he does hum, or purrs, or I purr when he hums. We hum and purr in unison. No fuss, no arguments, no answering back. He’s German too, by the way, and therefore has great suction, occasionally whooshing when his magnetic field comes into play. He is, my small adjustment, a perfect fit for me, he slipped in with only a milli of a millimetre to spare, a bit of a squeeze but manageable. He provides a service the like of which I have never experienced.

I didn’t appreciate the extent of my problem until I heard my sister-in-law whisper to her son, behind her hand, as they looked at my old one,

“And you thought I was a slut.”

I was shocked, at first, to overhear this slight, she is not unkind but her cackle was cruel. I then took a good, honest look at the old one. He was fat. He was old too; Old, fat and mentally dysfunctional. And his functions weren’t functioning anymore either, not as they should have done, not as they had done only a few weeks back.

When I look back to the days before my minor adjustment it is only now that I see the extent of my suffering. My spirits were at a permanent ground zero level. I could hardly lift myself from my bed, I stayed at work late. I was irritable and sweaty. How miserable the fat, old, dysfunctional one had made me. But I began to see I had a choice, because we do have life choices. We are told that.

Express Action followed what was final straw, when he assaulted me with his thick, yellow-skin-topped, stinky double cream and sprayed it all over my new trousers.

I opened up the lap top and after a bit of web surfing I found my new love. I filled in a lengthy form with details about me, I didn’t mention the dog and children. I chose a two-hour time slot to meet him, suggested a venue and my preferred type of service.

He agreed. Straight away! No pause for thought. I was heartened and paid up. The date was set for the following week. As the day drew nearer I began to get a bit jittery, I prayed it would work out between us. And what if he didn’t fit, what if I had got the time wrong, or he couldn’t locate my venue. And what if I didn’t like him after all?  Or he didn’t like me.

On the chosen day two overalled, big-booted, square-jawed men arrived. They said they needed to peruse the venue first. This small adjustment was turning into a bit of a do. I made conversation and told them that now the day had finally dawned I was very excitable. They weren’t, they were a bit surly, I offered refreshment but they declined. I asked where he was and they told me he was waiting outside and that they had to prepare him first before he could come in.

When he arrived how tall he was, taller and thinner than the old, fat dysfunctional one, he was sleek and sophisticated. The two grumps told me that he had to stand for four hours before I could turn him on. Those hours passed slowly.

At first there was a clicking, a deep sigh and then he settled down. Now we are doing well together. And I am happy, happier than I could ever have dreamt.

The phone is ringing, it’s a friend telling me about a weekend away. But can I leave him, can we bear to be parted. I open and shut his door with the whooshing noise which makes my heart jump and I take out the perfectly chilled orange juice. My friend asks me what I am doing and I tell her. She says STOP calling “him”, “him”. Its only words I tell her, but can I bring him with me?