Mother-in-laws: from hell to TV

The news that the next reality TV show set to ignite fireworks on our screens this autumn is about mothers-in-law moving in, struck a chill through my heart.

I could not imagine a worse fate. I didn't even need to meet my ex-mother in law to know that we would be arch enemies. When I entered her farmhouse and was shown the spare room with its mismatched sheets, ancient brown towels and cracked Imperial Leather soap, my obsessive, neat-freak gut went into revolt.

As soon as I saw her 37-year-old son's room (my soon-to-be fiancé), I could not have been more appalled than if the walls had been sprayed with blood. The floor was littered with old school uniforms, every surface piled with exam papers, the mantelpiece covered with Valentine cards and Rubik's cubes, while the teddy bear bedside lamp illuminated the glow-light stickers on the ceiling. His bedroom proved that he was not a man, but a boy stuck in the past and "Mater" was happy for him to stay there.

In my demented mind, the chaos was a form of abuse. I mistook pity for love and with astonishing arrogance, set about cleaning the room. It took eight hours to fill 10 bin bags for Oxfam and 11 of rubbish. When his mother returned, we both knew war had been declared. She knew the point I was making: don't you love your son enough to help him grow out of his adolescent muckfest of a bedroom?

By the time we got engaged, my pentheraphobia (fear of mothers-in-law) was in full force. Actually, it wasn't fear but chemical hatred - and it was mutual. For a family with such an extensive wine cellar, I had assumed that we would toast our future happiness with vintage champagne. But their disappointment with me - which was as acute as mine was with them - was registered with warm Moët and Pringles.

At dinner, Mater took charge of the seating plan. I was placed at the other end of the table from my fiancé, while she sat by him, proprietorially linking arms and ruffling his hair. I felt the beat of loathing as I watched her - I knew she had won. Why didn't he bat her hand back every time it reached for his fringe?

I felt so irrationally repelled by this woman that I only had to hear her highpitched voice prattling on, to seethe.

When she emailed to invite me to "suppsy", I caught the first plane to Los Angeles for two weeks to avoid it.

Looking back, I can see my horror was out of all proportion to the hapless crimes committed. It was easier to lay our marriage problems (such as our complete incompatibility) at her door. She wore black for the wedding - admittedly her jacket was adorned with gold leaves - but couldn't hide her devastation.

When my mother gave my husband some family cuff links, she, too, proffered me a cherished piece. It was a silver necklace of dangling sharks' teeth - quite the most monstrously ugly thing I had ever seen. The necklace was too tight - I can now add "fat neck" to my list of flaws - and as I felt her bony fingers digging into my flesh, I wanted to scream. It was as if she was trying to strangle me.

After the divorce papers were signed (unsurprisingly our marriage lasted only a year), I built a huge bonfire. It was like a funeral pyre for my dreams.

Yet the elation I felt as I watched her tight, bloodless face in the wedding photos go up in flames, coupled with the knowledge I would never have to see or speak to her again, was unparalleled.

For the first time since I met her son, I felt liberated. I started laughing. Finally, I could breathe.

I Hate My Mother-in-Law will be on ITV this autumn.