This is not a Christmas gift guide, because in my family we’re not doing gifts this year – we’re doing ‘hugging those we can and vid calling those we can’t and making plans for a big fuckoff party once we’ve all received our vaccines’. I checked my calendar this morning and was unsurprised to discover that 2020 has lasted at least ten years so far. And while it’s glorious that we’re now hurtling rapidly towards the end of it, with joyful vaccine news on the horizon, I don’t think any shiny presents will be sparkly enough to brighten what’s been such an objectively devastating time. So this is not a Christmas gift guide.

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Every year I try to do a Christmas presents guide that points you not-so-subtly to cool products my sponsors sell in case you want to buy something awesome for the hot people in your life (one of whom, inevitably, is yourself: you deserve presents too!). I realised this year that I should probably get off my arse and do at least part of it sooner, because if I publish something today you can also take advantage of Black Friday deals where you get extra discounts and cool stuff. If you’re not in the market for sex toys it will be very boring, so feel free to skip over it and go wank to one of the filthy posts while everyone else does their shopping.

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We’re sitting on the balcony in the candlelight, at two o’clock in the morning: my ex and I. And I do not say any of the things I want to say, because there’s no point saying them now. We chat and laugh and are gentle with each other, and he smells really good and he’s beautiful. So I don’t say ‘what the fuck’ or ‘Jesus Christ’ or ‘mate, I fucking loved you.’ When you hang out with your ex, there are certain things you’re just not meant to say.

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I am single now, so I’m doing everything on my own. I fucking love it. There’s an immense and roaring joy that comes with the power of being alone. The power to do or not do something based purely on whether the fuck I want to. Singing loudly in the kitchen. Dancing… well… everywhere. Learning new things and remembering old things and saying ‘yes’ when someone asks me for Skype drinks. I’m a strong, independent woman. In every single area except one.

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I stumble in the front door, drenched to the skin from a long and glorious cycle through central London, fighting the downpour and dodging past Boris bikes, punk tunes blasting into my left ear. Exhausted and satisfied and aching all over: my cunt hurts from getting well and truly fucked. As I walk in, I’m accosted by my conscience, who is as steaming angry as I am post-fuck happy, with the words ‘you fucked your ex’ on its lips.

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