There's nothing wrong with Meghan's pet name for Harry - it's certainly better than what the Dutch call each other

Because I’m a tragic person who clicks on any old internet link I see about Meghan Markle, I was immediately intrigued last week when I read the excitedly capitalised headline “Meghan Markle Accidentally Called Prince Harry His Secret Pet Name in Public and Got So Flustered.” Oooh, what could it be, I wondered. Given she’s American I figured it could be something terrible like sugar-pie. Or corny like baby-cakes. Perhaps even a saucy nickname like Big Red? Snigger.

But it wasn’t any of those. It was very sweet and very simple; Meghan called Harry “my love” when they went to see Hamilton and she didn’t seem remotely flustered, as it happens. Why would she? “My love” is a charming, literal term of endearment. It’s what I call my boyfriend because I find so many other pet names cloying. He, in turn, calls me darling, which I love. I remember the first time I got a message from him calling me “darling” and I felt a little flutter.

I’m so sorry to be syrupy and I hope I don’t put you off your kipper, but progressing from real names to affectionate ones felt like a big relationship milestone. Although I can’t call anyone “darling” myself. When I was younger, I longed to be the sort of woman who could pull it off in the manner of Tallulah Bankhead, all husky and seductive. But if I call anyone “darling” it feels silly, as if I’m playing at being a grown-up.

So, “my love” it is for Meghan and me, while Prince William calls Kate “babykins”, which I would find hard to believe were it not for the fact that this was revealed by the phone-hacking scandal and William was heard saying it in a voicemail. But I’ve known a few Old Etonians and I reckon he says it in a silly high-pitched voice to denote he’s being ironic.

Couples develop affectionate pet names for one another as a bonding technique, their own secret, special language. Each to their own in private, of course, but I couldn’t spend the rest of my life with a man who seriously called me things like “babykins” or “snookums”. He doesn’t sound like someone who’d take the bin bags out or get rid of spiders, does he? Adjectives like “gorgeous” and “sexy” make me cringe too, uttered by the sort of bounder who has a Stringfellows loyalty card. Why not return to old English pet names? Although I think “honey-pie” saccharine, the 16th-century word “honeysop” (literally, a bit of bread dipped in honey) is weirdly charming. I like sweeting and there’s “flitter-mouse” if you’re feeling brave. Lambkin nearly makes me wince, it’s perilously close to lamb-chop. But Shakespeare used lambkin in his Henrys so I think we have to allow it. I’m less sure about “piggesnye”, which was one of Chaucer’s and means “darling little pig’s eye”.

Although I reckon we should all be grateful we’re not Dutch because they refer to one another as “scheetje”, which translates, I discover, as “little fart”. Unless you are Dutch, in which case can I suggest that you give “my love” a whirl?

It’s good to talk telly

If you’re watching telly with someone, do you talk? Or do you sit there mute, concentrating on the screen? I ask because I’m a talker, like my mum and my sister, and believe TV is a sociable activity, more enjoyable when you’re slagging off someone’s haircut or discussing who might have done the murder. My boyfriend is not a talker and sits on the sofa as if a monk who’s taken a vow of silence.

So I’m grateful to the BBC’s Bodyguard, because the storyline is so bewildering that Lloyd and I have chatted throughout as we try to work out what’s going on. And when I woke up last Monday, I rolled over to ask Lloyd a Bodyguard question, only to find him already on his phone, scrolling through #bodyguard Twitter theories. So although it may be absurdly silly, you’ve got to admit it’s one heck of a drama to have us all hooked.

A fairway is heaven

I have something thoroughly shaming to admit. It’s going to take huge courage to confess, but I need to say it after many years of never speaking up when other people mentioned it because I was so embarrassed for them. Ready? Here goes: I played golf last weekend and I enjoyed it. I say I “played”. What I actually did was spend an hour trying to hit balls on a driving range.

But I had a grand old time. So satisfying, when you smash a good one. I’ve always rolled my eyes at golfing sorts – the fusty rules! The silly outfits! It seemed a lazy sport played by parvenus like Donald Trump who trundle round courses on a big mobility scooter. But I take it back. Although my right arm is still aching, I’m looking forward to practising again. Although it will be a while before I can take any of you on for a round.