The last time I went through an actual break-up (as opposed to implementing a policy of gradually falling of the face of the planet in order to stop “seeing someone”) I think I was twelve. A few weeks earlier a boy in my class had asked me, through a friend, to go out with him. We sat in awkward silence at the opposite end of school benches at lunch for a little while. And then I decided to tell him, through a friend, that I didn’t want to go out with him anymore.
And then I went and danced to the Spice Girls.
I never did the sickening teenage romance. Upon entering the dating game, I became quickly convinced that my soul-mate was located either in the eighteenth century, or France. Or even more likely, in eighteenth century France.