“Around five yeas ago a group of us gathered at a female mate’s house for a double celebration – both burns’ night (Scotland’s pseudo national evening of kilts and haggis) and her 21st. With the whisky flowing, all seemed set for a great night – especially since her flatmate from Uni was looking hot, hot, hot. ‘She’s single, but don’t go there, it’s all a bit messy,’ I was warned. But I was already three sheets, and promptly spent the rest of the night pursuing her with a ferocious vigour. After two hours of her smiling politely, I finally corned her and laid my cards firmly on the table. ‘I can’t it’s complicated,’ she explained, welling up. But I wouldn’t let go and demanded a reason. ‘My boyfriend of two years… died in a car crash… six weeks ago,’ she stammered. If only I’d walked away then. But no. In a moment that haunts my psyche to this day, I put my hand on her thigh. ‘Well, you’re going to have to get it over with sooner or later,’ I uttered. So ‘it may as well be with me.’”