And more a third of second marriages end within five years.
That’s the feeling that rises up in my throat whenever anyone asks me the totally non-condescending question of why I’m still single, which I’ve answered so many times in so many tones (“Just haven't met the right guy, I guess! There was the guy who kept taking calls from a number he’d labeled “Happy Happy Fun Time,” which turned out to be his drug dealer.
I have some sympathy with this; they felt we got married too quickly.) As we sat in a vegetarian restaurant in Brighton, I simply couldn't believe his alien, dopey smile and forced Father Christmas jollity.
I'd never seen this unctuous man before and I was, frankly, stunned.
I was 43, with an eight-year-old daughter from a previous relationship; he had three daughters ranging in age from late teens to early 20s.
While we realised weeks after meeting that we had most definitely fallen in love, we knew we would face considerable challenges blending our domestic lives.
She also has to endure her stepdaughter running her hands through her father's hair and even his chest hair, while staring pointedly at her, when on holiday.