THE break-up was tough. Working on yourself, ie wanking furiously, was even harder. But now you’re shagging someone new, better and you need your ex to know. Use these excuses: 

“I didn’t want you to hear it from someone else”

The faux modesty, the faux concern. The assumption that all he has to think about is whose face you’re sitting on right now, that finding out you’re getting railed from a new man will crush him. When really he’s hoping it means he’ll stop getting drunk-dialled from outside a Cardiff bar at 1am to be told all the reasons he’s a selfish prick.

“Is this your bra?” 

She might have left a few items at your place, but not a stripper’s glittery demi-cup in a visible-on-the-photo 34DD. Still, it’s considerate of you to text, with other clues such as her heels, her dress and her naked in the background, to see if she wants to pick up a smattering of discarded CDs because you ‘need the room for a stripper pole’. Notably you don’t include her old cardigan which you spent nights weeping into, inhaling her scent.

“Just checking you’re not in Edinburgh this weekend” 

Because you’d talked about going once, and he said it was his favourite city, so you’re doing the responsible thing making sure he’s not coincidentally there while you travel up with your new man for a five-day f**kathon. The chance of bumping into him was slim, given the size of the city and ‘we’ll probably be in the room most of the time!’ but still.

“I wouldn’t want you to feel left out” 

You agreed you wouldn’t be friends. You agreed it by shouting ‘I hope I never see your twat face again’ at high volume. But like the law, you must not only be done but must be seen to be done, so you’re inviting him to a little get-together with all of your mutual friends just to be inclusive. The tiny risk he’ll actually come is worth the brag.

“Do you think you’d come to our wedding?” 

Doesn’t matter if you’re getting married or not. You’re advertising it’s serious, and you’re so mature and civilised and over her you feel it would be right to get hitched with the woman who once held both your balls in her mouth present. It’s all very French, somehow. Ignore the fact that she would only attend out of pity for the poor girl you’re marrying.

“I just wanted to see how you are”

Again, faux-care. You’re picturing him alone drinking vodka from the bottle and call to savour it. Oddly, he seems to have club music on. Must be dancing away the pain. You ask how he’s doing, anticipating the delicious schadenfraude. ‘Fine,’ he replies, to giggling in the background. ‘Having Kirsty around helps…’