I can be a shockingly vindictive person. In school, I feuded with a girl for almost two years. She’d had the audacity to call me a “faggot”. I responded by calling her “thunderthighs”, screaming at her from halfway in the canteen, hurling abuse at her in various languages as she passed me in the corridors. I fed rumours about her. She apologised in an email, but by then I couldn’t have cared less about the original source of discontent. I was borne up by a wave of exhilaration, the exhilaration you get when you know you’re making someone’s life miserable. And I loved it.

Three years after that, I feel bad. Growing up can do these things to you. Hm.