Unlike Dave Le Van Dave, Dr Dave isn't orange. But he is my first love. The thing about first love is you're never really cured, only in remission. 

Dr Dave had just started Uni  and I was barely sixteen when we met on a rainy holiday on the Norfolk Broads. He was from the posh side of town and I wasn't. He didn't say much but there was something in his denim blue eyes that made me turn up at the hospital where he mentioned he had a holiday job as a porter. 

So? He didn't take my number. Which I didn't see as a problem rather a dating opportunity...

He screamed when I jumped out from behind the Red Cross Coffee Shop and yelled 'Surprise!' He was pushing a nice old lady to X ray who immediately gave up her wheelchair and suggested he sit down. I ran and got him a donut when he couldn't stop shaking. In my naive Jackie magazine world, this was because he was ecstatic to see me not that he was totally freaking out. 

He was onto a winner landing that summer job with unlimited access to nurses and a supply of short white coats so they would think he was a doctor before he really was. Until some scraggy sixth former from a council estate comes along to be your very own stalker. Hardly Dr Kildare, more Dr Strangelove.

Our first date was in Dr Dave's dad's shiny blue Ford Cortina which was so clean you could perform surgical procedures in it. Dr Dave had to write down the mileage  and 'significant events' in a notebook that was kept in the glove compartment, along with a flare and an emergency bar of Kendall Mint Cake. I was thrilled to A) Have a boyfriend B) Have a boyfriend who could drive C) Have free paper and a pen.

After Dr Dave and me lost our virginity parked up in a local beauty spot to the sound of a rutting Stag also getting off on the Cortina's aerial, Dr Dave let me drive. 

'You've driven before right?' he asked, breaking open the Mint Cake and a can of Tizer.

'Sure,' I lie, believing that going on the dodgems every year when the fair comes qualifies me for the open road. He passes me the Tizer can, I take a sip, bite on the Kendall Mint cake and as the flavours mingle, realise what Ajax tastes like.

'My dad will kill me if anything happens to this car,' Dr Dave says, starting to lose his nerve. I kiss his pubes. He starts the engine. I adjust my jeans, my foot slips and presses down hard on the accelerator instead of the brake, not that I know which is which. 

It all happens very fast, a bit like the sex. 

And that is how I killed a Stag, how Dr Dave wished he too had died rather than have to tell his dad I'd totalled his beloved Cortina and how his parents grimaced every time my name was mentioned. Oh dear.