This is a little departure from our timeline - I hope you don't mind. It's just that I had to write something - mainly because Caitlin and I have just said goodbye for the last time in a long while, and if I don't write something down I won't sleep a wink tonight. So here I am, in another hotel, in another bed, writing another article for our little blog.

Where to begin? I suppose quoting someone famous is always a good start. "The power of love is a curious thing, make a one man weep, make another man sing, change your heart to a little white dove, more than a feeling, that's the power of love." - Huey Lewis and the News.

Marriage is a wonderful thing, taken in its proper context and form, by two people who fully understand the commitment and are really and truly in love. I would venture that this rarely happens between two people below the age of about thirty. What I don’t think many people realise is just how long it’s supposed to last. I didn’t, but then I was married long before I ever got near thirty. I had a vague idea of the enormity of the commitment, but it wasn’t a real comprehension. I married a wonderful person – she was pretty, kind, loving, generous, humble, gracious – I won’t go on, but you get the general idea. There was only one snag, and that was that I didn’t love her.

In 1991, a girl I loved with all my heart - and hoped to spend the rest of my life with - dumped me with no explanation. I was utterly devastated, consumed by the thought that I would never find love like that again. Then along came the woman I was to marry – she was already a friend, but I hadn’t realised she was interested in me romantically. I was flattered, and saw no harm in dating her – indeed it was the perfect thing to get my mind off Julia. Alison was different from Julia, and hadn’t had the best relationship with her father. She used to write long letters to me about how she trusted me, but found it very hard to trust men in general. She sounded vulnerable, to be blunt, and I had the chance to make sure she was alright throughout life. So one thing led to another - we became engaged - and then ultimately, the wedding day arrived.

It wasn’t as though I hadn’t thought about what I was getting myself into. It was just that I thought I could cope, and that everything would be alright. I knew that she loved me more than I loved her, but I expected that my love for her would grow, and if it didn’t, I would easily be able to bear it, for I could never love again like I’d loved Julia anyway. I didn't know it, but I didn’t understand love and maybe I still don't.

There are some obvious examples of the different types of love – romantic love, parental love, sibling love, platonic love - the love of a good friend. Whilst I realised that the love I had for Alison was platonic love, it seemed OK - I didn’t consider that any capacity for romantic love remained within me.

Romantic love is a special thing – a spark, a quickening of the heartbeat when the object of desire enters the room. I do know that feeling well – the seeming insanity of some of the thoughts it provokes. How, for example, when the apple of your eye opens a door, you wish you were the door handle. How you wish you could be the air that your loved one just walked through. How you wish that, at any given moment, you were the person on the other end of their current phone conversation. Absolute insanity; love is well known for banishing any sense of reason from a situation.

I’m not sure I believe in love at first sight, but I do believe in a spark at first sight, a gut feeling that there is something overwhelmingly special about this person. Sometimes, someone just hooks your heart as they go by, and there’s nothing you can do to get it back. I don’t think this happens very often – once, twice, three times maybe in a lifetime, but when it does, there’s no mistaking it. In the words of Freddie Mercury, “It’s a kind of magic.” You could find the most beautiful, the nicest, most compassionate, most intelligent person, and try and make a relationship work. But if there’s no spark, no hook, you're in trouble.

I remember falling in love with Caitlin - it happened in a couple of distinct stages. Firstly, there was the first time I saw her. The initial hook. She was different - special, unique.

Now, I know that attractive women are everywhere. Especially in London - one can hardly move for fear of stepping on the toes of a beautiful woman. But pleasant as it is to look at such a creature, it’s all too easy for the illusion to be shattered - a terrible voice or accent for example. Really horrible shoes, walking like a man, excessive scratching and black-painted fingernails are all things that can make the most attractive woman lose her appeal in an instant. Yes – we all know that women can be fussy when they look at a man, but it works the other way too. But it’s not just visible things that are at work here.

For years I've travelled the UK and Europe with my job, meeting all sorts of people, and women. I've been in orchestras full of gorgeous female string and woodwind players (the brass section seems to be reserved for the uglier ones). When I was 20, I played the piano in the band for a gospel choir touring the United States for a few weeks - there were about thirty girls between the ages of 16 and 30. I have a number of very attractive female friends, but none of them - none of them - has ever made me feel like Caitlin did that first time I saw her walk by. I literally couldn't take my eyes off her, and something inside turned to jelly while my heart leapt. It was an unmistakable feeling - the magic spark.

The second stage was a a big bump, a realisation of how I felt which will always stick in my mind clearly. It happened during a morning coffee in April 2007. We were in the Starbucks in Caitlin's building, and talking about job interviews - I was going for one that afternoon. I remember a single moment when she was joking about my taking ages to sign off changes to a document. I'd been looking out of the window, and as I turned back to face her, my eyes happened to focus on the corner of her mouth as she started to break into a grin. I remember thinking that it was the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen and it made me want her - to hold her, to take her home, to look after her. My heart raced. At that time, I had no idea whether or not she was interested in me, but my heart had simultaneously melted for her and steeled itself against everything else that could stand in my way. The feeling was amazing. I flew to the interview that afternoon, a hero. I was unassailable. and the job was mine.

The next stage was that night in Carluccio's. Such a beautiful night with such a beautiful lady - by the end I was completely hooked, and that explains why I felt such pain when a week later I thought I'd never see her again. A year has passed since then, and my love for her has grown with every email, text, phone call and minute together that we have shared. Words can't describe how wonderful she is. And hot - my god, she's hot.

Before Caitlin, I had completely forgotten what romance felt like. I was resigned to the thought that I'd never feel it again, and you know what? I didn't mind, because it meant I couldn't be hurt as much again. But I'm so glad to feel it now. Thinking back to before Caitlin, about how I felt then compared to how I feel now, it's as if I were dead inside back then. I feel so alive now, and it's all thanks to her - she's brought me back to life, and I'll never be able to thank her enough.

I know now, that romantic love doesn’t suddenly spring from any other kind of love. If it’s not there in the beginning, it’s never suddenly going to turn up. Some people say that it does, that it’s happened to them, and if it has and they’re happy then that’s marvellous for all concerned. But find it hard to believe. I don’t think that you suddenly realise that the love of your life has been sitting next to you for the last five years, unless you’ve had some life-changing experience together. Massive trauma, for instance, is known for bringing a sense of fate and belonging to survivors, and love relationships often spring from catastrophic events. But that’s not the norm.

My wife is fantastic, she still has all of those great attributes that I mentioned earlier and more besides, plus she’s a really great mum to our children. I love her dearly – I would never set out to hurt or embarrass her, ever. But the spark is absent. Never on a single occasion has my heart skipped a beat when she’s entered the room – not even on our wedding day. Initially, I thought I could live with that for ever, and that was my crucial mistake. I wasn't looking for love - I haven't looked for it since Julia. But I had no real idea of how long "for ever" was, or what would happen if that love found me.

Mine is an extremely complex situation. Or maybe extremely simple, whichever way you like to look at it. My wife and I have two lovely young children, who are growing up in a stable home with two loving parents. It’s the model family – we even had a dog until recently. I earn a good wage, my wife works part-time, we have two cars, no debt, a nice big house in a nice area, a beautiful garden and we all have good health. There are plenty of people in the UK alone who would love to be in that position. Who am I to spoil all of that just for my own selfish happiness? It would devastate my wife if I were to actually leave, it really would. It would have a serious effect on my children too, and would probably devastate me for a while. Plus, I have a responsibility to look after them, and surely the way to do that is to provide a stable and loving home for them in which they can flourish and feel safe.

There’s another argument that says that you only get one chance at life, and you have to make of it what you will. If I need love - romantic love - in order to be happy in life, then I should cut my losses and go and find it. It’s certainly more appealing than the thought of dying an angry and bitter man. I can still be there for my children, but they’ll still need to learn to deal with a big loss at an early age. Still, they’ll have to make of it what they will. It’s true in a sense, but it kills me to think about it. No loving parent willingly wants to inflict trauma upon a young child. In fact, no compassionate human being willingly wants to inflict trauma on an innocent party, period. How could I live with myself, hurting my wife, children, in-laws, my dad and grandparents? How can I live with myself feeling like someone who is alive and kicking, but living inside a dead person’s shoes? But deep down, I’m terrified that I’ll make this leap of faith, and come crashing down into destitution and despair, bringing innocent people with me. Is it worth it, for love?

I'm really not sure how I feel about all this. Soon, too soon, Caitlin is leaving the UK for ever, going to start a new life back home with her family and her boyfriend and the baby she's expecting. I'm not at all sure how we could ever be together now, and am starting to accept that maybe we won't. I'm not hurting like I was after Julia, but I do feel as though I've lost the love of my life again and that I'll never love another. And that doesn't make the idea of a divorce very appealing. It was 16 years between losing my first love and meeting my second. Maybe I'll get divorced in 15.

One thing I am sure about is that I love Caitlin unconditionally. She's going to have another man's baby and to build a life with him, and I don't mind at all because I know she's happy. I'm very sad to be losing her, but at the same time, knowing that she's happy makes me happy too. It's a weird feeling - one that I'm not used to, but it's liberating all the same. And it makes me feel saintly, which I haven't felt before but can tell you isn't altogether an objectionable feeling.

I'm no saint, but I'm over the moon that Caitlin will soon have the baby that I know she's wanted for some time now, and that she worried she might never have. She will make a fabulous mum. I only wish I could be there to see her.