“I don’t believe in a happy ending,” I said to a friend of mine as we drank prosecco from paper cups, experiencing the kind of vivid orange and pink sunset that ironically looked exactly like the sky in a romantic film. We were in the park – one of many that would act as a proxy pub/toilet/social space in the post-lockdown summer of 2020 and we had just been discussing the likelihood of finding romance after the pandemic. Her face crumpled, and I instantly felt bad, as if I’d just told a child Santa Claus didn’t exist.

“What do you mean?” she asked, a defensive wrinkle marking her brow.

“I just don’t know that it is possible to sustain one singular romantic relationship for most of your life,” I replied. “And I don’t know if I want any of it – marriage, kids, the whole lot.” Her silence as we sipped our wine conveyed her disagreement, and eventually the conversation moved on to something else, possibly Rishi Sunak’s eyebrows or wondering when offices might reopen.