I'm at Print Club London. It’s my first time screen printing, and I’m trying to act like I know what I’m doing, nodding wisely to someone who may as well be speaking another language.

Love, as it turns out, couldn’t care less about appearances. Love doesn’t notice that you’ve put on a few pounds or that you have A LOT less hair than you used to, it also, remarkably, doesn't care that your laugh sounds like a startled goose.

I'm munching on a biscuit and an email popped up. Human Resources would like a quick word. That phrase, by the way, is never good news.

It’s 1987. My mum, dad, sister Emily, and I are boarding a coach in Newport, Wales, bound for Bargoed.

I once knew a boy called Mike. I first met him in 1994, on a damp and dreary Saturday in Holland Park, London.