When I was 18, I had a boyfriend with pink hair. He was in a band, and lived in a magnolia-coloured bedsit that he’d wallpapered with Beatles posters and swirly portraits of Syd Barrett. I myself had purple hair, stayed over around five nights a week, and contributed nothing to the décor but coffee spillages.
Since neither of us was working, or had any money, I had assumed Valentine’s Day would go the way of the day before — me flicking through charity-shop Philip K Dick paperbacks, him noodling quietly on his guitar on the rug (18 was apparently my year of cliché), perhaps later, a Ginster’s pasty.
But instead we spent it at the VD clinic.