Anyway, come Wednesday late evening, I’m sitting in Steve’s office, going through the papers to see if there are any funny stories we can use for tonight’s show. Yes, inevitably once we go live on air, the phone lines jam up with callers all wanting to tell their dating horror stories, but it’s no harm to have a few newsworthy anecdotes on standby to throw in, just in case the need arises.

‘Trouble is,’ Steve grins, ‘the lead news item this week is you, Jessie Woods.’

I jokingly fling the sports section of the Independentacross the desk at him, narrowly missing his head. Funny, but ever since I’ve been reinstated at Channel Six, things have been completely back to normal between us. As if we both know our days of working together six nights a week are numbered, so we’re both determined to make these last, precious few weeks as much fun as possible. It’s brilliant; we’re right back to the way we always used to be; messing and giggling with not a shred of awkwardness between us. Or sexual tension. Which is great. Which is all I wanted. Isn’t it?

‘Hey,’ he says, ‘at least the papers all have their facts straight for once. Including Emma’s sacking.’

‘Yeah, madam won’t like that. Not to mention that Channel Six have invoked the phrase of certain death. “Leaving for personal reasons”.’

‘Yeah, I know what you mean. Makes it sound like she’s about to check into the Priory for a six-month detox, doesn’t it?’

Come show time, he leads me down to the studio and gives me an affectionate bear hug before I step into the booth. ‘Be your usual, fabulous self, Jessie Woods. And hey, remember I’m getting you disgracefully drunk this Sunday to celebrate you getting your old job back. Rat-arsed and pie-eyed and no excuses taken.’

I grin up at him gratefully. Bless him, he’s probably the only boss alive good-natured enough to take you out on the tear after you hand in your notice.

Anyway, as soon as we go live on air, the phone calls start and barely stop. Poor Ian in the production booth is more like a 1940s telephonist than a producer these nights. People are all being really sweet, congratulating me on Jessie Wouldbeing recommissioned, then, after a bit of chit chat, launching into the real reason why they’ve called in.

It’s barely a minute past midnight and I’m on the phone to Carole from Drimnagh who’s calling in to ask if anyone out there thinks it’s possible to change a man.

‘Why do you ask, Carole?’ I probe gently.

‘Because my ex-boyfriend is back on the scene and when we broke up, he was a complete arsehole. Oops, sorry, Jessie, am I allowed to say arsehole on air?’

‘Bit late now!’ I say and we both laugh.

‘You see, he said he wanted to “take a break” about four months ago and I was nearly on the floor, I was that devastated. Because he was awful to me, wouldn’t return my calls or anything. Anyway, I was just beginning to get my life back together again, when out of the blue he contacts me, saying that he wants to get back together. Just like that. He says that he’s changed. Realises what an eejit he was in letting me go so cruelly. But my question is, Jessie, can a fella ever really change?’

‘No, definitely not!’ yells another caller, Jane from Rathmines. ‘They’ll mouth platitudes at you and tell you what you want to hear, but no man is fundamentally EVER able to change. Plus, they’re like homing devices; able to sense when you’re healing from them and that’s when they bounce back into your life to mess it up for a second time. So take my advice and run a mile from him. Now, while you still can!’

‘But, when we were together,’ replies Carole, ‘I was always giving out to him for never being romantic. And ever since he’s started trying to get back together, overnight it’s like he’s turned into the Hallmark version of himself.’

‘What do you mean?’ I ask.

‘Making all these spontaneous romantic gestures, without it being Valentine’s Day or without my having to nag at him. Flowers for no reason, breakfast in bed, telling me he loves me without a gun being pointed to his head…’

‘Well, clearly he wants to change,’ I say. ‘Plus, let’s face it. In our love-starved society, don’t these little romantic gestures go a long, long way? So I guess what I’m trying to say is, maybe you should give your ex-boyfriend the benefit of the doubt. Because if you don’t, you might come to regret it and end up with a serious case of the coulda, woulda, shouldas.’

Then Tommy from Blackrock calls in to say Carole should tell her ex where to go. That in his opinion, trying to change another human being to suit your own ends amounts to little more than a human rights violation.

‘And why do you say that, Tommy? Do your girlfriends ever try to change you?’ I ask.

‘All the time. My clothes, accent, friends, job, you name it. But the only thing I ever change is girlfriends.’

Cue an irate call from Fiona in Temple Bar. ‘I am fed up with men trying to change me. All my boyfriend ever wants me to do is to dress sluttier and wear more make-up and frankly I’m sick of it…’

Then Susan from Cabra says, ‘You know, it’s a huge mistake to ever think you can change a man. Apart from their clothes and hair, that is. Because mark my words, once you start pulling at threads, the whole fabric will fall apart.’

The show skyrockets on from there, we barely even have time for music breaks, and before I have time to look at the clock, Ian gives me a hand signal to indicate that I’ve only time for one last caller before we wrap.

‘So who have we got here on line one?’ I ask.

There’s a long silence. Dead time, as we say on radio, so I’m about to hang up when suddenly a man’s voice says just one word. ‘Woodsie?’

I know who it is instantly.

With absolute certainty.

But obviously, I don’t let on…

‘Yes, you’re through to The Midnight Hour. Who’s calling please?’

‘Woodsie, it’s me.’

‘I’m sorry, could we have your name please?’

I think it’s only delayed shock that’s keeping me this calm. That combined with utter disbelief. I mean, why would he be doing this? If he wanted to talk to me, why not just pick up the phone? Instead of ringing into a late-night talk show? When I’m working for God’s sake?

‘It’s Sam.’

I decide to play it cool. Well, as cool as can be expected given that my bum is starting to sweat. ‘And where are you calling from, Sam?’

‘At the moment, from my carphone. I just wanted to say, in response to the discussion that’s been going on, that yes, men can and do change.’

‘What do you mean by that, Sam?’

‘I want to say that, unless a man is a complete idiot, he’ll change if he realises he’s made a mistake.’

‘Go on.’

‘Because we all make mistakes. But what differentiates a winner from a loser is if you’re willing to stand up and say, look, I messed up royally in one particular situation and I’m prepared to change if it means I can win back something…or maybe some one…that’s very dear to me.’

My heart stops. For once, I can’t think of a logical, coherent question to tack on. But as luck would have it, I’m saved by the bell because just then, Ian waves to tell me that we’re out of time.

Nor was I dreaming or imagining things. Because the next day, Sam calls again. And again. And again. By lunchtime, he’s left about five messages for me and I’ve yet to return a single one of his calls. Because I’m in complete freefall. For the first time in I don’t know how long, I can’t decide on a clear course of action. Weird to think back over all these months, when all I could do was fantasise about Sam contacting me again and now that it’s happened, I’m like a rabbit in the headlamps. The thing is…I’m doing fine without him. Better than fine, I’m doing brilliantly. My life has finally fallen into place, like Lotto balls. I’m not Cinderella Rockefeller any more; I’m Humpty Dumpty, all put back together again. I never thought that I could function without Sam; I spent so long convincing myself that he was my split-apart soulmate and that without him, I made no sense. But, as usual, I couldn’t have been more wrong.