I recently turned 23: not a particularly momentous occasion but hey, any excuse to order in a shedload of curry and dance to Fleetwood Mac until the wee hours. It was an odd feeling as I thought back to twelve months before, freshly-graduated with no idea what had been happening IRL for the last three years, realising what 6am looked like, discovering council tax. The biggest difference as I woke up was that I was alone and, for a bit, that made me feel sad. And then I got some texts and phone calls and went to work and saw my friends and everything was, once again, fine and lovely. It creeps up on you, but it’s especially grim when it ought not to – when you know, even as you try to shake the chest-clench, that it’s really time to stop hashing it out and just crack on.