Whenever I`m back up in London, I love to catch up with friends; see my agent; take in a few Bond Street favourites, and no mistake. I`m a country girl, at heart. The endless green fields and remote farmsteads of my home turf are always the pull upon the thread when I`m away; but I do love a bit of Big City Luxe. So, sure, that Tuesday morning, I found myself shimmying my shapely derriere around the sweet little gilded chairs of La Vanille Patisserie on the Strathmore Road in pretty Primrose Hill.

My shiny new carriers were a far cry from the quaintly pastel cottages of Clonakilty and its wool shops and greengrocers. Mrs Dougal at the Post Office wouldn't have been impressed at the contents of said carriers; overpriced slips of lace and gossamer underpinnings, so fine and delicate, they were `not worth a peg` on her washing line. I smother a snort as I picture Mrs Dougal`s sturdy, giant white pants, blowing vigorously in a good Irish hoolie…ah, bless her.

A nice, wee dote has taken my packages for safe keeping while I indulge my passion for confectioner`s custard at a sweet little gold and marble table at the rear of the café. It has been a few years since I first forged my path into the public eye with my tawdry kiss and tell sexcapades, but people do remember. I still pride myself on the longevity of my lies. Truth is stranger than fiction – usually.

The dote brings a menu and I order a glass of champagne to begin. Having an hour before meeting Sir George Burnwell, my lovely new agent, I may need to take the edge off and relax. Hey, why ever not? I glance around idly as I wait, dangling my lovely new Choo from my toe. Pale pastel green walls (pistachio?) are offset with gorgeous golden cornicing, and a tremendous vintage chandelier provides a warming glow to tables and patrons alike in the cool October afternoon. Some fella is tinkling the ivories on a pretty impressive mini-grand in the corner and I could not be happier.

Then I see them.

Oh. My. Life.

No; it can`t be! Then the tilt of his head and that beautiful slab of cheekbone and I know; even before I see the colour of his eyes.

His hair is a little longer – I remember those dark curls... touching them… that pale skin…that mouth…

Thank Christ, my wee daydream gets banjaxed by the dote, bringing the champagne. Never have I needed it more, as I watch Sherlock Holmes – the cutest of the cute hoor ; the man who got me where I am today – sitting and drinking coffee … with a girl.

I really don`t want him seeing the clip of me – or eating the head off me for my little revelations; but my hammering heart quietens a fair bit when I take a slug of the champagne and slouch down in my seat. Ah, Sherl forgave me ages ago. He knows I was only acting the maggot on all those daytime shows and newspaper articles to get my own back. As if either of us still hold a grudge.

Who is that shiny haired fine thing with him? She does look kinda familiar come to think of it. Hang on – if she isn't that yellow dressed girl from wee Mary`s wedding – oh yes! She was with Meat Dagger man…that was a brutal little speech that poor fella made. No wonder Sherl made mincemeat of him. That`s my Sherl – one look from those iceberg eyes and you just shut the feck up.

I glance down and realise my glass is empty and my marron glace custard mille feuille is before me, ready for my delectation. Grand. A refill? Rude not to. I still have forty minutes before meeting gorgeous George and I am very curious as to the body language I am seeing before me.

The yellow dress girl is fairly smitten with Sherl – clear to see and easy to understand. He was (and is) quite the charmer when he wants to be. I should know, folks. She is a pretty wee thing. Hair swinging around her shoulders, and the sweetest brown eyes. I look down at my marron glace – yeah…sweet chestnut girl. Her face constantly turns to smile at him – I get it – I remember that. I hear the faint, deep rumble of his voice, but not his words. She is quiet, but I am further banjaxed to see that he seems to be giving her his full attention. His eyes meet hers so frequently and they are often crinkled with amusement at something she has said. That is fierce, and to be admired. The real Sherlock Holmes, the one I subsequently met, after he had done with me, was not much like the fella I`m seeing with this wee canary. I know well what a tough hearted bastard he can be…Feck! He`s touching her hand! Holding it, even – unprompted. She is looking down at their hands entwined, then up at his face, and – Jesus, Mary, and all the saints of the western world – he is looking at her like she`s first prize at the church raffle!

I seem to have necked that second glass rather quickly and my head buzzes pleasantly, muffling me from the slightly bizarre world I am sitting within. Two years ago, I quickly learnt that Sherlock Holmes doesn't do love. He just doesn't need it. It fogs up his fecking magnifying glass, or some such shite…I really do apologise – I`m coming across totally langers. That is my last drink. Today. I do not need to get locked in front of … Sherlock.

I think I can discreetly get my packages and leave before any confrontation happens, but then a sudden and shocking thought muscles its way into my cotton-wool brain. What if Sherl is up to his old tricks again with that sweet, little thing (Milly? Mandy?) What if he`s putting on all his moves to manipulate her, the way he did with me? That is just, plain wrong. No amount of dark curls and beautiful mouth is worth that feeling you get when you find out. It`s shite, let me tell you.

Suddenly, though, he makes a sharp move to stand and it`s all I can do not to drop and roll beneath the table…but, phew, it`s ok. Sherlock Holmes shucks on his (pretty sexy) coat and hoiks up the collar – natch. I am hidden beneath La Vanille Pattiserie`s generously sized menu as he leans into the seated sweet chestnut girl (Melanie?) and … oh my… would ya get outta that garden! He is actually kissing her. On the mouth! For more than a second or two, I can tell you! Then, as my eyeballs are adjusting, he is gone, in a swooshy twist of coat, scarf and door; it tingling shut and letting in a cold blast of autumnal air. Sweet chestnut canary girl watches the door for a wee second with the most gorgeously beatific smile on her lips, before rootling in her bag for her phone and starting to text.

It`s then that I decide, in my slightly blurry condition, what is going to happen here. Maisie (or whatever) is going to thank me for it soon enough, when I warn her about the trouble that comes along with that man. Janine Mckenna, you can wipe all the bad karma out of your lazy old life by doing one thing really right. Find her; meet her; warn her. Sherlock Holmes, you chancer, this is the last girl you`ll make a show of for your own ends. Just wait and see.

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