I don’t know how she even does it, but somehow she manages to shove me safely outside with the speed of a presidential bodyguard and all I can do is gratefully whisper a barely audible ‘Thank you’ as I try to catch my breath.

‘No worries,’ she says, cool as you like, fishing out a fag from the depths of her tracksuit pocket. ‘Now all you have to do is find me a boyfriend and we’ll call it quits.’

Later that evening, as soon as she’s home from Smiley Burger and after all her soaps are finished, I go for it. Because let’s face it, after today, I owe her big time and I’m determined not to renege on my end of the deal.

‘Sharon? Can we go upstairs? I need to talk to you. We might also need to use your computer, if that’s OK?’

‘Oh, right. Eh…would this be about…emm, you know what, by any chance?’ she asks, hauling herself up and bringing a tin of Bulmers with her. ‘Yeah, sure, OK then.’

Maggie’s antennae immediately shoot up. ‘What are you two at?’

For a second Sharon and I lock eyes.

‘Nothing,’ Sharon mutters.

‘Nothing?’

‘Well, something all right, but not really…emm…anything.’

‘Oh, if I begged you, would you share?’ says Maggie, thick with sarcasm and, I swear to God, Sharon actually looks mortified.

I’m looking at the pair of them, thinking how bizarre and ridiculous this is. I mean, Sharon looks like a rabbit caught in the headlamps. Like she’s actually embarrassed to tell Maggie what we’re up to. And OK, so maybe she did sneak down in the middle of the night to ask me about this but for God’s sake, it’s not like what we’re doing is something we have to keep as classified information, now is it?

‘As a matter of fact, Sharon has asked me to help her find a boyfriend,’ I say firmly, ‘and I need to talk to her about it privately, that’s all. The only reason we’re going up to her room is so we don’t disturb you watching What Not to Wear.’

‘A boyfriend?’ says Maggie, so shocked you’d swear I’d said, ‘Oh, Sharon’s anxious to join a local Al-Qaeda cell and I might just have a few underworld contacts who might help her out.’

‘Emm…well, you see…’ mutters Sharon weakly.

‘You want a boyfriend?’

First time in my life I think I’ve ever heard Maggie being cutting to Sharon.

‘Come on, let’s get going,’ I say, leaving the room first.

But Sharon stays behind me and when I’m half-way up the stairs I can’t help overhearing Maggie growl at her, ‘And you’re taking dating advice from Cinderella Rockefeller? The most publicly dumped woman in the country? Isn’t that a bit like taking PR advice from Princess Anne?’

‘Just back off and leave me alone, will you?’ says Sharon, slamming the door behind her.

Tell you one thing. That is one helluva dysfunctional relationship.

As soon as we’re safely up in the privacy of her room, she plonks down on the bed and launches into me. ‘What did you have to go and tell Maggie for? Now I’ll never hear the end of this.’

‘Well, excuse me, I hadn’t realised it was a state secret.’

‘You don’t know what she’s like. She’ll slag me about this for weeks.’

‘That’s daft, why would she do that?’

‘I dunno. I suppose she just wants, well, someone who’ll always be here to watch TV with her in the evenings. She doesn’t want me out and about, meeting fellas and dating.’

‘But what about when you were out with other boyfriends you had before?’

She looks at me sheepishly. ‘That’s the thing, you see. I’ve never really…well…you know.’

I don’t believe this. ‘Sharon! Are you telling me that you’ve never gone out with anyone? Ever?’

‘No! I’ve had loads of snogs and flings,’ she says defensively, ‘but never really anything…sort of…long term. Like you had with that Sam fella. Oh, sorry, I keep forgetting not to bring him up.’

‘It’s OK.’

‘But I think Maggie’s afraid that if I do meet someone, then I’ll be out gallivanting with him every night of the week. And then she’ll be stuck here on her own. Or worse, on her own with Ma.’

‘Not necessarily on her own. She’ll have me, won’t she? Come on, it’s not like I can afford to go out anywhere.’

We both crack up laughing at the thought of me and Maggie cosied up together in front of the TV, without managing to gouge each other’s eyeballs out.

‘Seriously though,’ I say, ‘I don’t get it. Why neither of you ever want to get out of the house now and then, is what I mean. It’s…well…it’s…’ I have to stop myself from saying, ‘…it’s beyond weird,’ so I just trail off into silence instead.

‘Well…Maggie says she’s only anti-social when she goes out, then finds there’s no one there that she actually wants to talk to. And we’re close so it’s just comfortable and easy to stay in. Tell me the truth, do you think we’re a bit odd?’

‘No, you’re not odd, you’re…emm…special. I mean, maybe it’s…you know, a bit unusual to see sisters quite as tight knit as you both are, but it’s…nice.’ Nicebeing the only euphemism I can come up with on the spot for ‘freaky’.

‘And then you see, the other thing is I’m always so knackered when I get in from work, I can’t face getting dressed up and going out anywhere. Not when I can just get a takeaway, a few tins and relax here.’

‘Well, then my next question is, how exactly do you ever expect to meet someone? Eligible guys tend not to go around knocking on doors wondering if there’re any hot, single chicks home. You’ve gotta get out of your comfort zone and put yourself in the line of fire. Which is why I’m suggesting that we go online and start you internet dating. Right now. Tonight. I’m throwing the baby into the paddling pool and not taking no for an answer.’

‘Internet dating? Ah Jessie, no,’ she almost splutters on her cider. ‘I want to meet normal fellas not perverts.’

‘It’s not like that any more,’ I reassure her. ‘When I was at Channel Six, half the women on the production team were at it. From the office, when they were meant to be working, more often than not. There’s no stigma about meeting people online any more you know, it’s just a way for busy people like you who work long hours to meet people from the comfort and safety of home.’ I threw in the ‘comfort and safety of home’ bit on purpose to try and lure her in.

‘Hmm,’ she says suspiciously. ‘But don’t some of these fellas have websites that say things like “Retired farmer seeks nubile young lass for fun times. Must have own chicken.”’

‘If they do, then we just ignore them. Simple as that.’

‘But supposing I do meet someone and I go on a date with him and he turns out to be a total weirdo?’

‘Ahh, then that’s what the emergency escape call is for.’

‘The what?’

‘It just means that about fifteen minutes into your date, your mobile rings and your dating wing woman, in this case, me, gives you an out. Just in case you need it. But if all’s well and the guy doesn’t turn out to be some pervey farmer, then you just tell him it was only work ringing and he’s none the wiser.’

‘God,’ she says, looking at me, impressed. ‘You must have done this loads of times.’

‘Actually, yeah. You know, before I met…himself…I was out there too. At the dating coalface. Plus we once did a whole Jessie Wouldprogramme about dating, a few years ago. I had to speed date, read date, internet date and even go eye-gazing dating.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Same as speed dating except you’re not allowed to talk. The idea is to see whether there’s any non-verbal chemistry between you.’

‘And what’s read dating?’

‘A fancy word for multiple blind dating except it happens in Waterstone’s. You’re supposed to get chatting to blokes about their taste in books, then figure out if you’re compatible from there. You know, like if a guy is reading Jane Austen, chances are he’s gay. Or if he’s reading Jeremy Clarkson, chances are…’