After hours: Up all night

I'm entwined with Neanderthal, my boyfriend, in bed. It's early in the morning on market day and the CD stall just happens to be below my window, so I get an earful of whatever they decide to play.

It's mainly West Indian music, and our bedposts are banging to the tune.

Neanderthal falls back to sleep again, so I leave him in deep hibernation and sit on the pouffe at my Art Deco dressing table and brush out my hair.

I had curls in last night so it's got a nice wave to it this morning.

I look in the half-oval mirror on my dressing table and consider what lipstick I'm in the mood for today. While I rustle for them in the side drawer, I come across a little silver compact mirror that one of my former girlfriends, Adina, once gave me - and I feel a pang of nostalgia for our dates, girly gift exchanges and nights in with Neanderthal joining us.

Adina was our sex pet, but it ended quite a while ago when she got a boyfriend. Neanderthal and I are always on the lookout for a new one. Another girl in the bed does sometimes make me a little jealous but most of the time I don't think of it in that way. The sheer excitement of a gorgeous woman conquers all other feelings.

I get out my four lipsticks, all by my favourite brand, Besame. They have gorgeous, nostalgic Forties-style packaging and the golden bullet goes "pop" in a delicious way when you pull off the lid.

The fruity West Indian music and the sunshine makes me choose "Carmine", a coral shade, and I do up the rest of my face in the pale powdery way as normal. I'm especially careful with my lips, going over my bow very slowly.

Annette has promised to call later with an update about the podiatrist she met on the boat last week and as I'm pondering what mischief she has been up to, suddenly a very familiar tune comes on in the market.

It's Harry Belafonte's Banana Boat Song - although Neanderthal's and my name for it is "banana suck" and my ritual whenever we hear it is to stop whatever I'm doing, get down on my knees and do just that.

But as I look at my perfectly painted pout I sigh and reconsider. Perhaps he's asleep and won't hear it? I continue to go over my lips, but behind me in the reflection, the great beast rises from his slumber.

"I love this song," he says, stretching. I fall to my knees, and watch myself in the mirror - smudging my beautifully painted lips.