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Speaking as a crazy girl - I think the polite term for it is: 'suffering from bipolar disorder', though I prefer 'crazy girl' - I can confirm that my craziness has worked wonders for my sex life.

When I'm depressed, I am a vision of glorious lasciviousness. With my greasy hair pasted to the side of my wan face, red-rimmed, unsleeping eyes, chapped, brutalised lips and my unwashed body beginning to smell faintly of broccoli, I am probably not what my grandmother would call 'a catch'. Run, or I shall eat you, along with the by now vaguely mouldy contents of my fridge. And so what if I haven't had the energy to leave the house in a month?

During these down days, I pretty much just sway from my bed to the kitchen then back to my bed again. There I lie in repose, gorgeously, with my fortnight old clothes waiting to be peeled off. Literally peeled, as they've been worn for so long that they've become a kind of second skin.

And what is sexiest in all this, is how 'hard to get' I play. Don't let my seeming disinterest fool you. Touch me, and I'll recoil, like a spider. Doesn't abstinence make the heart grow fonder? Maybe there's something in being a nun after all.

Since I'm lucky enough to have bipolar disorder - which, as we all know, is 'the fun mental illness', I will eventually move from depression to bouts of mania (scientifically termed as: 'being really happy').

During manic episodes I am bountiful, beautiful, charming, amazing, glossy haired, white of teeth and dressed in clothes that a Barbie would consider too revealing. This is because one of the key symptoms of mania is hypersexuality (scientifically termed as: 'hitting on anything that moves').

Sadly, this often includes people other than my boyfriend. He's there, and he loves me, but it's not enough. I know that the riotous sexuality within me can't be contained; in fact, how dare he ask that it be? So I share it amongst ... everyone. This is usually followed by apologies from my boyfriend to those who are involved, and screaming protests from me as I'm dragged away and bundled into the nearest taxi.

But hey, that's totally sexy. Passion is attractive, isn't it? As is passionately trying to make love to someone who is still pretty angry at you. But it's okay, it's not one-sided. I'm pretty angry at him, too. Here I am, a sex goddess, and he doesn't seem to appreciate it. All he seems interested in doing is getting me to take little white pills. He says they'll make me calm down. What a waste.

I do take those little white pills, though. They give me an added dimension of sensuality. The three stone of weight I gained because of them means that there's just more of me to love. When my hair started to fall out in the bath, well, my hair was too long anyway. The short hair I'm now forced to sport because of it suits my face. Though the vomiting isn't so attractive, I'll admit that.

The nightly ritual of swallowing my antipsychotic medication takes the spontaneity out of proceedings somewhat. Things don't happen as naturally as they used to. In the past, I could raise a suggestive eyebrow and extend a 'come hither' forefinger. Or, as we lay in bed, I could climb his chest with my lips and drop wholly unsubtle hints.

These days, the best I can do is mumble, "Maybe I'll take my medication ... later?" When I attempt a seductive smile, I go all lop-sided with the effort and it doesn't work out as the most appealing of come-ons. For me, the equivalent of clearing the table of its contents then prostrating myself invitingly across it, is making the effort to tuck the pill box out of sight into my pocket. It isn't the stuff of great love stories. It isn't even the stuff of mediocre love stories.

Should I bravely slur, "Fansshy a quickiee?" after I've taken my medication, there's about a ten-minute window in which I can perform. My medication makes me incredibly sleepy. My limbs turn to lead. I can barely lift my head, though I need to in order to avoid choking on the drool that's beginning to pool in my mouth. All these things can be worked around, if one wishes to, but it doesn't make for the most fulfilling of escapades. And forget intimate cuddling afterwards. I'm asleep, and will be for the next twelve hours. When I wake up, I'll still be zombified and drugged, so early morning shenanigans are out of the question too - unless you like to do it with stiffs. And frankly, if you do, then you need help.

Yes, crazy girls are great in bed. And my being crazy has been synonymous with my being sexy. That is, as long as you don't catch me when I'm depressed, manic or medicated. Sadly, though, I'm always one of the above.

So, fancy a quickie?