If my breakup made the news and there was speculation as to who I’d date next I’d hide out on an island with every ex-boyfriend I could convince to come with me.

You’d be an easy draw, first RSVP, an email, a text, short call, not even a letter. In fact, you’d be awaiting announcements, from Day One to present day, sure that fault-lines effect not just earth but my underskirt, understudy (the girl you see in almost every photo of me), under-eye-skin, conscience.

I was never quite sure my religion, which my religion was, until I was sure and knew it was not text book, a modern day creation. You, who Sellotaped Rosary beads when they snapped, once.

Every other piece of news is tea-making time and that, this, relationship is the whir of a plan to kickstart a career that never should’ve veered, from TV.