Tracey Emin: My Life in a Column

"Money can't buy you love." But it can buy you a first-class round-the-world air ticket at any given moment - or, as events have sadly shown in the last week, a one-way ticket out of New Orleans. Now I'm not going to bang on about this too much, because it is stating the obvious, but crimes against humanity are looking high on the agenda.

Telepathy

I had this boyfriend once who I had been with for years. When I finally found out that he was having a full-blown affair from a mutual friend, who sadly informed me that it was common knowledge, I can quite honestly say I wasn't in denial. I just couldn't understand how anyone would lie like that.

After texting him, the word beginning with c and rhyming with "front" 220 times, I packed up all his clothes and belongings. I even washed and ironed his dirty clothes, and left them in the hall to be collected, between 4pm and 6pm on a Monday afternoon. I came home and cried. I didn't stop crying for days and days. He wanted space. I went to Australia for two weeks. I stayed three months.

Out of sight, out of mind, you reckon - like you're going to stop that telepathic shit from happening.

It's like when you have a broken heart. I always think of it as a piece of paper. It can only be folded eight times. Each fold is like the heart closing in on itself - and one more fold after the eight and it will spring open. The thing is, you never know when the origami master will come along. Oh, you have to laugh. The pseudo-philosophy we give ourselves to try and stay sane.

Cheer up love, it might never happen. Tell me about it.

Rosé future

Mental blowout. Friday was a bit of a killer; I think I upset myself with my own column. But blimey, did I get a lot of invitations. My favourite text message was from my friend in Paris, Charles Henry, which read: "Tracey, you're not fat, you're not ugly - just lonely."

All the parties, all the glamour. Monte Carlo, Shirley Bassey, Donatella Versace, helicopters, swimming pools, Yves Saint Laurent, Valentino. Where's the invitation to snuggle up and watch TV? Maybe I threw it away a long time ago, without realising. Along with the picnic in the countryside, on the tartan blanket, or walking around the supermarket trying to work out what to have for that cosy dinner. Every morning, I look out for that invitation.

I'm at my studio. I'm half a bottle of rosé down. It's five o'clock. It's Friday afternoon and it's Crackerjack time. Fuck it, I make my own invitations. I phone J Sheekey and book a table for six for 10pm.

"Will we be arriving from the theatre, Miss Emin?"

"No, I'm working at my studio. I just want a late table."

My phone is ringing. It's Miranda, the mother of my goddaughter. I can hear her voice saying: "Tracey? Tracey? Where are you?" I open my eyes. I can see I am at a table with a group of people I don't know. It's a reflection in a mirror, and I am really confused.

"Where am I?" I gasp.

Eric has his arm around me. "It's okay, Sweets. We're in the restaurant."

"Yeah, but which restaurant? Which city? Which country?"

"J Sheekey, Sweets."

Then, slowly, everyone at the table is transformed from ghostly apparitions to really good, close friends.

At that, I demand to know where my food is, to find I have already eaten it, and have already paid the bill, and have knocked back half a bottle of dessert wine on top of the three bottles of rosé. Nice one Trace. Really cool. See how you've got a grip of things?

To all at J Sheekey:

I am so sorry for my stupid, drunken behaviour, and the fact that I passed out. This is no reflection upon your restaurant, as I love the food and the service. But it appears I love my drink a little too much. I apologise if I caused any stress or embarrassment to staff or any other diners. I promise it won't happen again.

Yours sincerely,

Tracey Emin

Devilled eggs

Back to the train. I was half-dozing, staring out of the window, trying to imagine what it would be like to live in the countryside. A sort of Heathcliff situation. Then I started to wonder if people really did shag sheep. I imagined myself in a small sheep outfit, roaming around the moors, a kind of woolly knickers ensemble and suddenly I screamed to Kelly, my assistant: "FUCK! THE EGGS!"

Three hours earlier, I had done the sensible thing of putting on two eggs to hard boil for my journey. Docket had had his tail attacked, and Laura, my studio assistant, had taken him to the vet's. On returning to the house, she found the whole place filled with smoke. The reason? Two dried-out, burnt, shrivelled-up eggs. That'll teach me to be sensible. Bring back the old crazy wild anorexic alcoholic. See if she'd burn the house down.

Tracey Emin is away trying to sort herself out