CHEATIN'
Confused doesn't even begin to explain how I've been feeling since Saturday.

The day itself - blighted by England's predictably, nail-bitingly, ridiculously disappointing World Cup quarter final - was a good one. A BBQ, fun people and V.

I'd met V on Friday night. The moment I walked into the room I locked onto the shapely, Aussie's pea-green eyes and cheeky smile. I was smitten.

My smittenness continued into Saturday when she turned up at the aforementioned Barbie. I ended up smooching her before going to pick up Z - my girlfriend - and taking her out for a damp squib of an evening at Kensington Roof Gardens (get to front of queue - "that'll be £20 each, please," says doorman. "Goodnight!" says I.

Roll on Sunday and I got an earful from best friend T about honesty, and how I had to either tell Z or get rid of her. "She's falling in love with you," she said. "I can see it in her eyes."

I'd never heard T so disappointed in me. It was as though I was no longer the person she thought I was - honesty and integrity, after all, have been two of my bulwarks for as long as I can remember. If I don't have those, what do I have? What is anything else worth without them?

Throughout a sleep-deprived Sunday night these thoughts ran through my mind, over and over and over until I drifted off into an uneasy slumber.

Tonight I went out with V again: a picnic in Primrose Hill (a safe distance away from Z's home neighbourhood). We didn't have much to say. And as I looked at her more deeply, I realised she wasn't all that after all. Must have been the wine, and the beer, and the Pimms.

So objectives changed. I brought her back home, but the tea I enticed her with was all she wanted from me. All the while, I kept asking myself why I was doing this? Why when I have Z would I risk breaking her heart and messing things up, not to mention screwing with my conscience, for a bit of heavy petting with a frigid Australian? Answers on a postcard, please...