If that cheating footballer (can I name him? I really don’t know any more) had acknowledged foul play instead of hiding behind his super-injunction, the grass would have grown over his muddy little affair by now.
And we wouldn’t have spent the last few weeks feeling sorry for poor, broken-hearted, suicidal little Imogen Thomas, driven to drinking three big glasses of wine a night.
The girl who, it now transpires, had sex with him just hours after meeting him in a bar, would have been able to sell her story straight away. And pose poutily in a skimpy version of a Manchester United kit.
We’d all have known from the start what she was more broken-hearted about – the loss of a walking wallet.