In a red wine frenzy my best friend Livi and I zoomed like race horses back to our Parisian hotel, rummaging through suitcases for our PJs before my parents came in to check on us. We’d been “out, out” taking in the air in the absolutely mental (we quickly learnt) Latin Quarter. If I remember rightly we were about 17 – Liv would’ve been 16, and we were as thick as thieves stealing through the night to chat up French boys and do shots. We’d gone on holiday with my parents. Liv

I’ve been chatted up a fair few times in my life. From wolf whistles out of dust-ridden white vans, numbers on napkins and iron pumpers in the gym telling me “you’re doing that all wrong” as I squat with my legs far too far apart, each time the encounter is riddled with pure, unblemished awkwardness and sweaty palm syndrome. I’ve watched girls dismiss chat up lines with a simple schoolyard slogan of “take a picture it’ll last longer,” and then there’s the straight-to-the-poin