And, no, there isn't a suspicious-looking, freshly dug plot in the back garden of Thornton Towers which appeared overnight after one barbed comment too many about my wine consumption and/ or the state of Leeds United's back four.

In fact, she's been promoted.

My Special Friend is now officially my fiancee or, as I call her, my Beyonce.

"Is it because I'm black, young and sexy," she cooed in what already is becoming a quite wearisome loved-up tone.

I replied: "Er, well, you're not black, young's a relative term and we're getting married so what's being sexy got to do with it? If I was a betting man, I'd say it's more to do with it rhyming.''

It's such a weird word "fiancee''. It sounds like a middle manager in a High Street bank. Mind you it's not as bad as the word "engaged''.

That makes you sound like a toilet door.

Anyway whatever you want to call it – I am/we are.

But this getting married malarkey is very stressful – it says in the brochure it's supposed to make you happy. It better do.

Getting the ring was difficult enough.

She's been dragging me in front of jewellers' windows all year. I'd skilfully feigned indifference while secretly making mental notes.

So last week in best James Bond style I hatched a plan to take a day off work, nip off to Hatton Garden and buy her a ring.

I told MSF (as she still was then) I was going to work but would be out of the office at a hush hush meeting. The idea being if she called the office and somebody told her I was on a day off, my cover wouldn't be blown.

Then on Thursday evening she informs me: "I forgot to tell you, I'm not going into work tomorrow."

The colour drained from my already pallid features. I muttered under my breath: "If I wasn't going to ask you to marry me, I'd have to kill you."

My plans were in turmoil. I had intended to wait until she'd left for work, then put my jeans and t-shirt and saunter to the station for a leisurely trip to the capital.

Instead, I had to go through the rigmarole of putting my suit and tie on and heading for work seemingly as normal. Worse still, I had to go into the office as I'd left my mobile phone there by accident.

But I didn't want to turn up in a suit on my day off otherwise the editor would think I was going for an interview. Which is why I was in the downstairs loo at Telegraph Towers changing from my suit into my civvies just so I could pop into the newsroom for 20 seconds to get my phone.

I almost called the whole thing off before I'd started.

Price isn't right for market shoppers
The farmers and continental markets have given a real boost to city centre life. They created a vibrancy in Cathedral Square and it would be a sad day if the markets were to stop coming.

They've been running a year now. On the anniversary, The ET spoke to some of the traders, who, not to put too fine a point on it, turned out to be a bunch of moaning minnies.

Calling for more support from the buying public, they compared Peterborough unfavourably to other venues where they ply their trade.
But market trading is capitalism in the raw. The traders should look at their prices. The feedback I get from people in the know (a clue, they are the ones wearing dresses) reckon its too pricey and with the credit crunch no-one is going to pay over the odds as a gesture of support.

Don't throw Aaron to the Wolves
I can understand the anger and disappointment of Posh fans, and indeed chairman Darragh MacAnthony, over star striker Aaron Mclean and his desire to leave London Road, apparently for the dubious delights of Wolverhampton.

But nobody should be surprised. If you want to be emotive, you can call players "mercenaries''.

But just like most of the rest of us, they do a job, they get paid, and when a better offer comes along they want to take it.

You can call Aaron disloyal, but what if instead of scored the goals that fired Posh to promotion he had struggled and not got in the first team. He might have found himself among the half dozen or so Posh players the club wants to leave even though they still have time left on their contracts.

On the other hand, I don't suppose those contracts include image rights!

What about a second chance?
I don't like crooks and they deserve all that's coming to them. But if we don't give them a second chance, all of us will suffer.

Eighteen-year-old Majid Ahmed, from Bradford, was given a community service sentence after admitting his part in a burglary when he was 16.

That conviction is now spent. Majid has turned his life around, got his A-levels and was offered a place at top university Imperial College to study medicine. But when he told them of his conviction the offer was withdrawn.

For goodness sake, give the lad a chance.
Contrast Majid's experience with Premiership footballer Joey Barton.
How many chances is that thug going to get?

There but for the grace of god. . . .
I don't rate too highly ex-city MP Helen Clark's chances of success in her legal battle over the clip of her posted on YouTube.

The former Blair Babe was captured on film having an altercation with staff at the city's Great Northern Hotel.

But I hope she does pursue the matter as the law lacks clarity and certainty when it comes to the internet.

Our existing laws were framed long before the worldwide web was even a dream and they just can't cope with the explosion of unregulated information.

The clip is explosive stuff and no doubt some will revel in it. But those who do should ask themselves if they have ever been in a situation which if secretly filmed and an isolated clip made public would have caused them embarrassment.

I know I have.