Two letters came yesterday. Two letters and a gorgeous bunch of flowers. The flowers were a beautiful mix of roses and tulips – a pre-wedding gift from friends (thanks, John and Neil) – and a joy to behold. They were left on the doorstep in a big box with Interflora on the side and I couldn’t wait to rip into it and set them free; I love a nice surprise. Conversely, the two letters had 3 initials on them that caused me to hide them under some magazines and circulars, just for now. This was something I didn’t want to set free. The initials? EDF. This’ll be the gas and electricity bills, then.

It’s been cold, right? And I’m old, right? Too old to be shivering anyway. I spent a lot of my early 20s living in places without central heating, running my hands under cold water to get the blood flowing again and wearing duvets as outerwear. As soon as I had money, I vowed that as god (or, y’know, whoever) was my witness, I would never go cold again. Even if that meant having to go hungry. I’d rather skip the odd bottle of wine or trip to Barbados (make that Brighton) than not be able to pay the heating bills.

But this one will be high. So, it’s under an old copy of Red magazine and an ASOS catalogue: this is my lovely week and I want to pretend I don’t owe Électricité de France £1 million til after we’ve all had cake. They’re French (or, at least, they used to be), they’ll understand. Won’t they? It is, after all, all about l’amour. At least that will be my defence in court.

Two days ago, I had to swear on the Bible. It was for the affadavits to prove that I’m not, in fact, about to enter into a sham marriage with an American I don’t know. I do know him – well enough to know that he was as flabbergasted by production of the Good Book as I was. We were both raised Catholic (he with just a pinch of Baptist), so haven’t had much cause for direct dealings with it.

I knew that the term was “to swear an affadavit” but I hadn’t thought it through. I mean, it could have meant a solicitor throwing the forms and exhibits at us crying, “Here’s your effing affadavit!” They’re very busy you know.

But here it was, a green, hard-back version, and I was being asked to place my right hand on it and solemnly swear by Almighty God. I have nothing but respect for the people who believe in A to the G and that his Book deserves its permanent place in the bestseller charts; it’s just that it’s not my thing. The facts I was swearing about were very important to me; I recognised both the seriousness of the occasion and the need for something big and symbolic upon which to swear. But, as soon as the Bible came out, I felt like I was in the Wild West, or on Judge Judy, but without having hit nobody upside his head.

In these days of extreme tolerance and understanding (sigh - that’s a joke – I don’t want you taking it literally and writing to me all breathless), isn’t there room for something un-God related to swear on? How about: I swear by my favourite tree that I am not about to enter into a sham marriage. Or: I swear on my mother’s life that I’m not a burglar. My favourite: by the power of Greyskull, I HAVE THE POWER!

Except I don’t. EDF does. And I swear I’ll pay them soon.

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