I ask Jack, “Are these stories you’d tell our kids, are they stories you’d tell yours?” and Jack says, “Sure. I keep a bit of a diary. Dates, lists. Girls’ numbers. And I think I’d make a good storyteller when it comes to it.” But I think there’s probably more to it, that what I want alone is a school sized exercise book with other men’s initials on the front because it’s not just once you meet the one you’ll spend forever with, that you really think is it. I’ve met about ten now, maybe eighteen, an extra two if you count Caitlin and Karen.

“Even that story about Barney wanting to suck his own dick?” I ask Jack. “You’d tell our kids that?”