I am one of those servants – butlers usually – who respectfully points out when their master is about to do something stupid: “You should probably only burn the document once the blackmail has been completed, m’ lady.

The smoke rolls along the low ceiling and pours up into the night – a reverse waterfall – like when the kettle boils beneath the plate cupboard.

That’s a big love letter,” she says, squinting. I know what I’m going to say and for a moment I wish there was a film crew documenting my day-to-day life: “I’ve got a big heart,” I say.

Once you’ve been through certain experiences, you may as well accept that your life from that point on will be one massive Ferris wheel of the same emotional trauma, relived and recycled, over and over.

The word defenestration, the act of throwing someone or something out of a window, was first coined after a Polish revolution in 1605 when they threw the royal family through the palace windows.

Her eyebrows were so blonde they were almost invisible, making it difficult for her to look angry, apologetic or quizzical.

To us and a wonderful evening of love making.

It is strange to hear your mother talk about being human because, honestly, it’s too easy to forget.

There will be birds and if they write your name in the sky then you can get on the buses and if they don’t you have to die on the floor.

Most people think of themselves as individuals, that there’s no one on the planet like them. This thought motivates them to get out of bed, eat food and walk around like nothing’s wrong. My name is Oliver Tate.