I’ve been proposed to precisely twice. The first went exactly like this: ‘I want to be tied to you, Chubby.’ I accepted. What can I say? I was over 40, and the prospect of me ever getting married was looking as likely as being attacked by a shark on dry land.

There was no ring at any point in the proceedings; I even had to pay for our platinum wedding bands. In this I resembled Liz Taylor who, Cartier told me, always picked up the tab for her jewels so Richard Burton didn’t feel emasculated.

My husband did later buy me something with diamond chips, but was keen to point out it was a ‘friendship ring’, even though we were married, reminding me of that brilliant line in Bridget Jones that goes: ‘Magda said even after she and Jeremy were married, whenever she mentioned children he went all funny and said she was getting too serious.’

'Forgive me for coming over all Beyoncé, but he does have to put a ring on it'

The second proposal took place at a restaurant in Paris a decade later. My boyfriend got down on one knee, knocking over the water on the next table, and said: ‘Will you marry me?’ He had to say it twice as I’m deaf and had replied: ‘Eh?’

He was unable to get up again due to arthritis, so he really was old enough to have saved up.

He handed me a ring I already knew had cost £21.99 over the internet, as I’d hacked his emails and seen the receipt. Who says romance is dead? He tried to plead his case by saying he had forked out for p&p.

Therefore the news last week that a quarter of men propose without a ring, and that half of women are disappointed at a moment that should be the most memorable of their lives, really struck a chord.

What is it about modern mankind that makes them think they can have us for nothing? Men might think it charming and romantic to offer something out of a cracker, or a piece of string. It is, as long as you’re 19 and can back it up with something real later. If you are a grown man on a salary, you should be ashamed of yourself.

And don’t cite Engagement Ring Terror as a life raft while you sink beneath our disappointment, saying: ‘Oh, well, you’re so damn fussy, anything I choose for you would be wrong.’ How about just going into Tiffany and asking for help? Keep the receipt, as long as it has enough zeros, and we can always change it later. It’s the bought that counts.

I said yes to the Parisian proposal initially – it’s churlish to say no when you’re stuck in a five-star hotel together.

I kept ordering espressos, which cost €40, and saying: ‘Hmm, this cost more than that ring.’ But later I rather sensibly backed out, entirely due to his lack of commitment in the jewellery-buying department. And this is why. If a man cannot be bothered to spend at least a month’s salary on a ring, he is not really serious about the whole shebang. He can afford a car/golf/tobacco/a holiday/ a season ticket to watch West Ham, but not a ring.

'I said yes to the Parisian proposal initially – it’s churlish to say no when you’re stuck in a five-star hotel together'

He has it in his thick head that because of equal rights, and not opening doors for us, and not swearing at us on roundabouts, and because he once made dauphinoise potatoes and washed up rather than leaving pans piled in the sink, that he doesn’t have to buy us a ring. That he has a get-out-of-Cartier card.

Well, forgive me for coming over all Beyoncé, but he does have to put a ring on it. There must be one advantage to being female. We do everything else.

Having paid for my wedding, bought the rings, his suit, shirt and shoes, sent out the invitations, picked up the organic cake from Notting Hill, organised the flights and the villa near Seville, the one thing I asked my husband to do was hire the car. He did so, on his Visa Electron debit card, but when we landed and tried to pick the car up, they said he’d passed his test too recently to have it. So I had to sign for it and drive it and hand over a proper credit card. He said it was just as well as he was afraid of mountains.

So, yes, I want a rock. And a bloody great big one… if only to aim it at his head.

Who would take a holiday in the English countryside? I’m in Dartmoor, and on Friday I stopped at the Post Office in Postbridge to buy dog food. I got out of the car with a Costa disposable cup, and headed to a dustbin to deposit it.

On entering the store, my boyfriend told me the owner had said: ‘That bin is for shop use only.’ And when I hadn’t responded, due to being deaf, the owner had said: ‘Talk to yourself then.’ I know who the litter lout is, and it’s not me…