Ever since I was a little girl I have been a somewhat head in the clouds romantic and dreamer; aged five I’d watch Disney’s ‘The Little Mermaid’ and imagine my future wedding day to my very own blue eyed, black haired, Prince Eric. ‘The Great Gatsby’ is my all time favourite book, and ‘The Notebook’ and ‘Love Actually’, my favourite films. So there’s very little denying my sentimental, daft romantic nature.

Sadly, meeting string after string of inappropriate men who’ve treated me poorly has made me somewhat bitter; I’ve felt more of an affinity with Malicifent than with Ariel and over the past few years: my once hopeful, warm,romantic heart has slowly been turned to ice.

That was until this Saturday, and the wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. Their wedding ceremony and visibly obvious love for each other restored my faith in fairytales and true love.

The way she gazed up at him when he removed her veil, how he told her she ‘looked stunning’ and how he was ‘so lucky’ and the kiss on the steps outside the chapel. Their wedding ceremony was one of the most beautiful things I’ve seen, and it wasn’t the script of some movie, the plot of a book or something out of a cartoon. It was real life! These were real people!

I must have cried about 4-5 times watching the ceremony as it made me realise that we all can have that special one in a lifetime kind of love if only we open up our hearts, dream and believe in love. So I’m putting out there to the universe, my own idea of love, my idyllic fairytale – in the hope that somewhere out there Prince Charming does exist…

He drives a vintage Porsche and drinks whiskey neat. Skis in the winter and holidays in Tuscany in the summer. His style is classic tailored suits and crisp white shirts. He takes me to Paris where we’ll drink champagne in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower then onto Rome where we go to the open air opera and later in the evening he’ll kiss me tenderly in front of the Trevi fountain. We play Lana del Rey while driving with the top down along the French Riviera. He orders rare steak and Bordeaux and talks about Nietzsche and Chomsky. We sit on a rooftop somewhere, under a blanket, gazing at the stars, drinking wine and chatting til 4am in the morning. His black Labrador is silly and enthusiastic and snuggles with us on the sofa. We sail around small islands in the Caribbean, stopping to laze and tan on white sand beaches. At weekends in the winter, we will watch the football together from the terraces in wooly hats whilst drinking bovril and eating sausage rolls. He’ll put up with my love of Oscar Wilde and take me to watch plays I’ve seen a dozen times before. I’ll put up with his love and fascination with 1920s gangsters and sit through Netflix documentaries about the mafia. Sunday evenings are slow, relaxed and about baked Camembert, cider and passionate encounters on the sofa. Monday mornings are about quick intense passion, coffee and grumbling about the week ahead.

We support each other completely, don’t try to change each other; accept each other for our flaws and failings and embrace each other’s strengths. We each want to become a better person because of the love we have for each other…