The next morning, still slightly drunk, I packed my bags for London – the joy of no 100ml restrictions. Flying by private jet isn’t nearly as exciting as it sounds – crucially you miss Duty Free, which is of course the best part of travelling, as the girls at beaut.ie can verify. On the plus side there are no ques. (Although at the rate Irish people are buying planes this may not be the case for much longer). Instead you check in via a little hut and get a mini-bus to the plane. I told you it wasn’t glamorous!

As security on the ground was pretty limited ‘Undumpable Dave’ decided to wait until we were in the air to perform his own safety protocals, which seemed to involve a body cavity search - of me. The escape options were limited. Thankfully having dated him for a while I knew how to soften his cough.

Consequently I started a massive row on English imperialism, based on his mis-guided assumption that just because I was poor and Irish that I owed him something. I realise that on the ground and not hungover this doesn’t hold a lot of logic, but at the time it served a purpose. All romantic intentions vanished ( along with my rugby tickets ) as we argued for most of the flight.

A bit like the Carlsberg ad, when faced with a challenging situation it isn’t always option A or B - fight or flight, but in my case option C - flight AND fight.