This, on the face of it is a relatively lenient sentence for them, given that they could have been sentenced to years of imprisonment. However, I am far more concerned about the bit that hasn’t been mentioned much – that at the end of the sentence they will be deported back to the UK. That is fine for Mark Hawkins, although he will obviously have to face the wrath of his family, but what about for Sally Antia? She has two children and has lived in Dubai for 13 years. She will lose custody of her children and be forcibly removed from the country.

I wonder if her husband is regretting his decision to report his adulterous wife to the police. He might currently think it is sweet revenge for her behaviour (I certainly do sympathise) but what about for the children who have now been deprived of their mother. If only he had given a little more thought to how badly they will be affected by this outcome. I can only hope that he is planning to come back to the UK at the same time so that she can be with her children.

“My first wife, Frances, was a classy, stunning woman. In the macho world of medicine, she was as capable and ambitious as any man. We met soon after we’d graduated and quickly moved in together. We worked and played hard — sex was important to both of us.

I’d never wanted to get married, and I was surprised when, after five years, Frances said she wanted to. But I agreed, and for the next couple of years nothing changed. Apart from work: Frances was really starting to make a name for herself.

I was delighted when she told me that she had been headhunted for an extremely prestigious post, but stunned when she said she was unsure if she wanted it, because she was nearly 30 and wanted a child. We’d always agreed we didn’t want children, so this came out of the blue. She said it needn’t change anything, but there was no way a child wouldn’t impact negatively on our lifestyle and I said as much.

I’d never seen Frances react as she did then. She completely lost the plot, screaming that I owed her a child. She admitted she’d lied about not wanting children — she said it was because she loved me and didn’t want to lose me. The next two weeks were dreadful, full of late-night talks and tears. Eventually, against my better judgment, I agreed to go for it.

Anna was a delightful baby and I fell in love with her. Frances, however, was totally consumed by motherhood. I longed for my glamorous career girl to reappear. I took takeaways home for dinner, and made sure our cleaner upped her hours. But Frances just sat around in her dressing gown reading baby-care magazines and books, or comparing notes with other new mothers.

I realise that complex factors kick in after a birth, such as tiredness and self-image issues, and that high levels of the hormone prolactin while breastfeeding reduces a mother’s libido. But shouldn’t women want to overcome this?

Six months after having Anna, Frances told me she wanted to take a five-year break from work and have another child. I was adamant that I wanted no more children. I couldn’t help feeling short-changed. By now she was overweight and unfit and didn’t care about the way she looked. Her entire life was centred on organic baby food and playgroups. Our home was always full of strange women talking endlessly about nappies, baby food and the right sort of stimulation.

Don’t get me wrong, I love Anna, but I also get on with the rest of my life — work, relationships and other interests. I’m the same person I’ve always been. But for all the talk of multitasking, it’s the mothers who become completely one-dimensional. It’s ironic, when being sexy and attractive is what got them pregnant in the first place. And it’s not only Frances who’s become a boring frump — it’s depressingly common to see clever, attractive women become parenting bores. You can spot them at parties, in baggy clothes and making no effort to be interesting to men. Surely the ultimate mummy could still be a sex cat, if no longer a sex kitten?

I ended up getting the stimulation I needed from someone else. Maria had joined the hospital where I worked. She was a few years younger than me, beautiful, clever and sexy. It took only one illicit coffee for our affair to start. We took appalling risks, having sex in store cupboards and empty conference rooms.

It wasn’t only about sex, however, mind-blowing and addictive though that was. Maria was challenging, intelligent, great fun and a poignant reminder of the beginning of my relationship with Frances. Because, despite everything, I still loved Frances. I tried to engage her interest in work. I took home champagne and flowers, bought her jewellery and perfume. But she no longer wanted to connect with me on a sexual or romantic level. Then Maria told me that an affair was no longer enough for her — that if I didn’t leave Frances, it was over. I told Frances, who was surprisingly upset and actually punched me, the first physical contact we’d had in months — and we ended up having amazingly passionate sex.

The next morning, I moved in with Maria. But it wasn’t long before she also suggested marriage. I couldn’t believe it. I had a strong sense of déjà vu. She’d often decried the way Frances had become so maternal and domestic, claiming that wasn’t for her — now she was heading the same way. We got married. Then she said she wanted a baby. I repeated all the protests I’d made to Frances. The arguments raged until Maria eventually said she would leave me and have a child with someone else, and I gave in.

Ten years after leaving Frances for Maria, I wonder why I bothered. Frances is still frosty with me and I have a horrible feeling that my daughter Anna doesn’t actually like me very much. And Maria? Nine months ago, after giving birth to my second daughter, Sarah, she has turned into another version of Frances, obsessed with motherhood in just the same way.

Has all the aspiration and ambition they applied to their careers been transferred to parenting — or did they only pretend to be career-orientated? Both of them have made themselves martyrs to motherhood, sacrificing everything from keeping fit — what’s wrong with walking a brisk four miles with a buggy, if you can’t bear to leave the baby in a creche? — to the occasional night out.

Frances lied to me about wanting a child. Maria might have done so as well. I can’t believe how naive I’ve been. I don’t know how long Maria and I will last, but I know one thing: from now on, I’m putting myself first. I’ll never trust a woman again, no matter what they promise”.

“From now on, I’m putting myself first” says it all…..from now on? I would suggest that that is what he had been doing from the beginning. Not accepting that women can change, that children have an effect on a relationship, that he chose to find somebody else to have sex with – his whole attitude shows an appallingly selfish and childish approach to life and I suggest that suspecting that his daughter “doesn’t actually like me very much” is a major understatement. Pity the poor women he feels let down by.

To forget? Not sure. I forget lots of things these days because I’m getting old and alcohol is slowly blurring my memory cells. But important things? Even things that really really hurt…why would you forget them? Deal with them, yes. Box them, yes. Move on from them, yes. But being aware of them and even remembering them from time to time seems to me like progress. You learn from experience. To block out those experiences seems pointless to me. You need to confront them and learn from them, live with them and grow from them.

ANYWAY….the point was that MOB wants to know why the concept of “forgive and forget” was so huge and difficult for me….I won’t bore you with ALL the details (check out my post called “Marriage and Motherhood” if you want to know more) , but I will have to briefly explain the situation so that you can see why our mutual lack of forgiveness was so damaging.

“It is easier to forgive an Enemy than to forgive a Friend”.
William Blake

He was my best friend. When best friends do something really bad it is very hard to forgive them because you feel so unbelievably let down and betrayed. I had thought we had the perfect life. Three beautiful, healthy children and a lovely home. My husband had a good job and I therefore had the luxury of being able to give up my job to stay at home to bring up the children. That isn’t to say that I was deliriously happy all the time…I had my low grade resentments – sometimes I found being at home all day immensely dull, sometimes I wished I could just walk out of the door in the morning without a backward glance. Sometimes I just felt bored and cross. Sometimes I was angry with him because his life with children was remarkably similar to his life without children -his life changed very little. Whereas mine changed dramatically.

Apparently, around the 14 years of marriage mark, I failed to pay due attention to the fact that he felt trapped and unhappy. He didn’t love his job and he felt pressured by having a large mortgage. I didn’t know (until it came out in counselling) that “what time will you be home?” had become a question he had grown to hate. There was a problem with a client at work and then his father died, both these things deeply affected him, understandably. I tried to be supportive but he grew distant and disinterested. I couldn’t reach him and we began to argue.

When I found out that he was having an affair, his distance and his urge to create arguments all made sense. That’s what I believe happens if you’re in an affair – you convince yourself that what you are doing is acceptable because your partner “doesn’t understand you”.

I plummeted from a great height into a very big black hole. I didn’t recognise myself anymore, let alone him. I lost the plot far more than he will ever understand. My entire life unravelled before my eyes. At first I was numb and then I was angry and then I was deeply deeply hurt (and if I’m honest, humiliated too). It is easy to drift apart in a marriage. To lose sight of each other and yourself. Especially when you have three young children to look after. The hard bit is keeping it together when the going gets tough. I felt he had given up too early and taken the easy option out. When it all fell apart I panicked. Being on my own was not an option. I wouldn’t be able to cope. My children wouldn’t be able to cope. He stayed in the house and in our bed. I tried everything. Counselling. Endless drinks and dinner together to talk on neutral territory, away from the children. Weekends away. I tried desperately to make sense of it all, to understand, to forgive him. But he had become a stranger to me and I began not only to hate him, but to hate myself. I was alarmed by the constant ugly roar of noise in my head – the sound of my pure unadulterated rage.

There was no way, in the early stages, I could forgive him for what he had done. He wasn’t sorry enough. He didn’t lie down and say “run me over” (“twice or three times if you want”). He didn’t insist we flew off to a desert island to sort things out. He didn’t put his wedding ring back on when I asked him to. He didn’t buy me the biggest diamond in the world (yes, shallow I know, but I’m a girl…it might have helped a bit). He didn’t go and talk to my parents (yes, a bit weird, but for some reason I wanted him to do that). He didn’t even stay at home with me the day I found out and couldn’t stop crying. He went to work.

I wish I had been able to forgive him. Things would have been so much easier in many ways, expecially for the children. But. I couldn’t. In order to forgive you need to be able to understand their side of the story and I didn’t. After two years of trying to work it out I filed for divorce. Much against his will. He was furious. In fact, he still hasn’t forgiven me.

Mark Twain said something beautiful about forgiveness:

“Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it”.

How lovely is that? But unfortunately, if you want an analogy here, I felt like dog shit on the heel of his shoe and dog shit, when crushed still smells like dog shit (only worse). Is it any wonder that I’m not a poet?

So. We’ve now been divorced a year almost to the day. There’s nothing much more to say. It is an enormous shame. Life is very different now. For all of us. I have forgiven him because I’m calm and peaceful again and I really believe that life is too short to hold grudges forever. But what is the point of forgiveness now? It’s too late and not really the relevant emotion anymore. He isn’t remotely interested in the fact that I can now deal with his betrayal. He now can’t forgive me.

He is still very angry and hurt by the way I reacted. He felt he did “a bad thing” but that my reaction was extreme. He is still furious that when I asked him to leave the house I didn’t ever, in the two years that he was renting a flat about 5 miles away go and see him there. Why would I? I wanted to run him over, not go and have a bloody cup of tea in his new depressingly childless flat. He told me once that he would never forgive me for depriving him of his children and he still feels that way.

It is all so desperately sad. How easily lives can be changed forever by the actions of others. Cause and effect. I’m not bitter anymore. “Shit happens” is my new philosophy in life and I’ve grown and learnt from my experience. However, it doesn’t help that he is still so angry. I think it’s a shame that we haven’t moved on to a better acceptance of what went wrong. He actually said to me just before we divorced that he hoped, one day that I would do something I needed forgiveness for and not get it and then understand how awful it was not to be forgiven….

So have I forgiven him? Yes (sort of). Have I forgotten? No I haven’t and I never will.