Ok, so everything is all friendly etc, and we went out to see Deadpool 2 and have pizza. Then we got home and I realised those are date like activities, and that, mwah ha ha ha ha, the soon-to-be-ex Will. Have. To. Date.┬áBecause, as I have explained in gentle, soothing tones, he isn’t going to meet his prospective future wife by hanging out at home watching videos about Porsches. Nope, he’s going to have to sign up to Flamr* or whatever, iron a shirt, shave, dig out the aftershave and go out and make polite conversation for a couple hours at a stretch. Possibly repeatedly.

I confess that as soon as I had this realisation, I started laughing not entirely sympathetically. Partly because being friendly and supportive only goes so far and I’m not a fucking saint, and partly because of the absolute horror of the contemporary dating scene.

In comparison, I have done my time. I’ve had so many boyfriends I couldn’t do a roll call, I’ve been married, I’ve had one night stands. I have earned my stripes and now I get to retire from active duty and sit in on Saturday nights until the end of time, wearing PJs by 7.30pm, with a bottle of wine, a box of Maltesers and Strictly. ┬áBring it.

*As far as I know, I just made up Flamr, but now think it’s a dating app for barbecue enthusiasts. Or arsonists.