It’s those little experiences that prepare you for life. The ones at 2am and you’re sat, half-lotus, in a hallway of a nightclub. The smoke curling round you like the tendrils of a very relaxed ghost with a wicked urge for food. A dozen friends sitting round, and you’re trying to make a fine point about what Chaucer’s Knight actually meant to the very handsome boyfriend of your best friend’s flatmate. All over a bass rhythm that’s penetrating even this subterranean bit of the club.

It begins when he smiles, and mouths “Sorry, I’m involved” and looks down at the curly haired girl with red and purple wool woven into dreadlocks that’s asleep on his chest. When you realise exactly which gesture your drunken hands have been making, and the heat of the blush threatens to toast your brain even more than it already is.

That’s not the educative bit though. The real learning experience is remembering for next time, so that you don’t turn red and implode, but where you just wink and mouth “I won’t tell”