Once I stayed in a hotel so ‘intimate’ that if your lover was lying in bed, you could technically look them in the eye while you had your morning shit. Upon arrival in this hell-hole, I realised there wasn’t a loud enough megaphone in the world to adequately amplify the force of my ‘Fuck no!’, but luckily for me my partner is understanding, and equally reluctant for me to see his dump face. We established a toilet etiquette system, so neither of us would be forced to see things we would never be able to unsee.

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I hate my sofas. I hate them with every single fibre of my being. I hate them more because I should have anticipated the problems I have had with them, and left them to rot in Marks and Spencer where they belonged. With their shitty sleek design and their evil spindly legs. And their squeaky, ill-placed, uncomfortable cushions.

I cannot fuck on my sofa. And although this might sound like an entitled whine (it is), I want you to be able to learn from my mistakes if you can. Never ever ever buy a sofa you cannot fuck on.

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I’ve lost count now of the number of exes I’ve stared at across a pub table and thought ‘God, I wish you were inside me right now.’ Chances are if I’ve fucked you once I’ll probably be up for another go, and having a casual pint with you and discussing your job/wedding/newborn baby is not going to do anything to help distract me from the fact that I once tasted your dick and it was goooood. But this isn’t about ex-lust, it’s about getting over your ex. It’s about the feeling you get when someone amazing has gone, and it feels like nothing will ever fill the cavernous, throbbing hole bored straight through your heart.

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If I’m certain of anything about myself it’s this: I am a fucking nightmare. Anxiety means I am constantly examining every detail to see what might be right and wrong with my life. No – scratch that – every detail of what might be wrong. What’s right gets dumped on the ‘finished’ pile, and rarely given more time than a cursory ‘hooray’ before it’s time to move onto the next thing. Leaving my brain free to focus on unpaid bills, people I may have offended, and a mountain of relationship insecurity on the side.

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Most of the ones that got away did so because of timing.

Paul (not his real name, but he looked like a Paul. Or a Peter. Or a Stephen – with a ‘ph’ not a ‘v’) will never know just how perfectly wrong his timing was.

I met Paul in a beer garden. Again, most of the ones that got away escaped from beer gardens. Or pub lounges, if the weather was shitty. Metaphorically slipping out of the window when I was busy fucking someone else in the toilet.

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