Call your grandma, tell her you love her.

100 words on romantic nihilism.

I date men you can’t sit opposite at the pub if there’s a mirror behind you because they spend the entire time preening and locking eyes with their own reflection.

They’re always middle aged, they never know how to drive, and they’re almost never married.

Apart from the last one. His wife found him in their bathroom mirror, taking selfies of his hairless torso as he tensed and writhes into extreme shapes, with a trunk of semi-erect penis poking out the waistband of his grey tracksuit bottoms, to send to me, the woman he’d saved on his phone as nan.