Surely there comes a time in every girl’s life when she’s allowed to believe, just for a moment, in fairy stories? A moment where against all the odds, the glass slipper fits. (I’m not talking about finally fitting into that pair of skinny jeans, but something far more magical than that). I call this the ‘Cinderella Moment’. And it happened to me…

With very little money, and memories of a series of disastrous flat shares in my backpack, I returned to the family home last year, just in time to turn 32. “Just till you get on your feet” my dad said, even though my bank balance had the ability to invoke a stroke.

For a while, I basked in home cooking and endless cups of tea, but two months in, I began to wonder what life had in store for me. I hankered after the hustle and bustle of London, I hankered after my friends. I even hankered after some of the less undesirable flat mates I'd had (not flushing the loo made sense...for the environment). I'd always had visions of myself married with a small brood of delightful children by now. Instead I imagined myself in ten years’ time, sitting in my parents' lounge, sipping tea and pondering the merits of joining the Lady Masons. Was this really where my fairy story would end?

I moaned to my friend, Matt about my situation. “What if I end up getting knocked up by a local Leicester lad and I'm stuck here forever?” I panicked.

“That's not going to happen!” he assured me, but I wasn't so sure.

When it comes to love, my mum always told me “Don't go searching for him, he'll find you.” Right Mum, and he'll be riding a white charger too will he? was always my response.

Whilst I believed that fate could be a strange and magical creature; along with Goblins and the Fairy Godmother, the prodigal knight in shining armour was safely filed under M for Myth in my mind.

I eyed the village men in the local pub with trepidation, my mum's words echoing in my mind “Don't look for him, he'll find you”. With a choice of Big Dave or the landlord's second cousin with the lazy eye i wasn't sure i wanted to be 'found.'

Depressed, I sat in my old bedroom in my Mickey Mouse Pyjamas with the pen mark on the right boob and pondered my future. “I feel ill” I texted Matt. And I did. However much I relished the single life, I knew deep down there was something – or more to the point, someone, missing. “Well enough for a glass of wine?” he texted back (I'd only known him a short while, but he knew me so well).

I thought of him down there in London with an array of pubs to choose from. The only wine I had to hand came from a box in my parents' fridge.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door and I trudged over miserably to open it.

There was a man standing there on the doorstep with a bunch of flowers. I hadn't realised how good looking he was before and a smile lit up my face as suddenly it dawned on me.

“I had to find out” he said.

It was Matt.

Suddenly everything mum had said made perfect sense. Thanks Mum.

Liz Frost is a freelance writer. She writes for The Guardian; The Daily Express; Metro; Grazia; Look; Company; Cosmopolitan; Cosmopolitan Bride; Glamour; Zest; B and Bliss. Email her at liz@lizfrost.com, even if it's just to say hello! Or log onto her website www.lizfrost.com!