Tonight, twenty-three years, almost to the hour, after we first met we were slouching on the sofa in the semi-conscious comfort of utter familiarity. One character in the TV drama we were watching was a haggard, drug-addled prostitute.

“Her face is like the one I see staring back at me whenever I look in the mirror,” I remarked.

“Oh no,” said Tim, “she’s been made up to look like that, she doesn’t really look that rough.”

I intend to show no response whatsoever to this: I intend to fill my face so full of Botox that facial expression of any kind becomes impossible. Not because I think I need it, but because Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned … Unless it’s a woman scorned who also has access to your credit card.