Vicky Ewan: My new celeb crush - and he's not far from home

I recently divulged to my husband that I have developed a celebrity crush.
Lest you be concerned and are reaching for platitudes of comfort (or, perhaps, outrage concerning any potential consequences of my rash indiscretion), this was neither a twisted attempt to provoke upset nor a ruse to trigger a barrage of tricky questions, the reassessment of our relationship and, ultimately, the end of our twenty-five (twenty-five!) year marriage.
I was not secretly seeking marital conflict, nor was I catapulted into blurting out my confession for the purposes of clearing my conscience or in the hopes that my husband would abashedly reveal the object of his own private admiration - I am fully (by which I mean pain-fully) apprised of the lucky few that occupy a special place in the shallower chambers of my husband's heart, but they should concern me not: they can jostle for their superficial seat whilst I burrow ever deeper, assured (mostly) of my pole position.
No; the revelation was inspired by an unexpected epiphany, one that made me glad to share my clandestine crush with my spouse, in the hope that he might approve.
As you may suspect, this person is not the subject of my first idolisation; that dubious privilege was reserved for the clean-cut preppy popsters that peppered my teeny-bop youth. O, how beauteous I found the Bros brothers, with their slicked-back blond hair, icy blue gaze, edgy jeans-and-leather-jacket combination, and unashamed aspirations for stardom!
The horse-themed posters hitherto adorning my bedroom walls were swiftly removed, and glowing pages from teen magazines featuring these young men's chiselled faces were affixed in their stead, only to be replaced in turn by images of the five New Kids on the Block - most particularly, one of them: Joey McIntyre, the youngest member.
This winsome young man (who, incidentally, when asked to choose three adjectives to describe himself, as I was charmed to discover via my avid poring over the magazine's glossy leaves, readily identified 'Catholic' as one of the choices), was, I had utterly convinced myself, destined to be my future husband: I alone would skilfully steer him through the treacherous waters of fame, understanding the real him in a way that no other could and nobly asking nothing for myself save his unquestioning and fathomless devotion.
Sadly, that dream was never to be realised; nevertheless, those sensations of intense devotion to another were all-encompassing and vivid, flushed with the fever of youth. And so had begun an avalanche of adulation that coloured my adolescent years, and those of the vast majority of my peers - though their taste in heartthrobs was rarely aligned to mine.
My best friend favoured curly-lipped, long-haired musicians; their tumbling tresses, instrumental prowess and inevitably raucous rock-based talent conspired to form an arrow that pierced her youthful heart with an aim truer than Cupid's own.
My own preferences were more conservative in comparison; no less potent, they burned bright but brief as I stumbled awkwardly through the obstacles of adolescence. Such is the teenage heart, full of fervour and caprice!
Eventually, as I fumbled my way into maturity, the infatuations lessened, and when I met my husband and discovered the nature of real love, they dwindled into stasis, echoes of their existence rumbling only infrequently: I was not wholly immune to the appeal of ersatz suitors but had largely strayed from that lovelorn path. It was only recently, when watching the updated version of a favourite musical film, that I suddenly became aware I was drawn to one of its stars, entranced by his angular features, slender frame, dark hair, and long blue eyes.
As I pondered this reflexive reaction, it hit me like a thunderbolt: this fine specimen bore more than a passing likeness to my own dear husband! In fact, the similarity between their appearances at the time when I first knew my beloved was uncanny.
Life may have softened his sharp angles and shadowed his eyes, but I can still see in my husband's enticing smile the young man who gazed at me from across the room. And that is why I didn't hesitate to share my latest crush with him, eager for him to learn that I have a type, and that type is him. He was suitably gratified.
As for his own proclivities, I am trying not to preoccupy myself with them; unfortunately, no one could ever convince me that I bear any resemblance whatsoever to Britney Spears.