I’m standing in the kitchen, awkwardly toeing the floor, having the sex talk with my dad (aged almost 30, and 12 years after I actually lost my virginity).

Except we’re not calling it sex, we’re calling it ‘living with someone.’ And we’re not actually talking about sex at all, but religion. More to the point, we’re talking about how I need to go to confession because next year, I’m getting married in a Catholic church and to do so, you’re supposed to go in with a freshly-cleansed soul.

I’m not against this, by any means; I’ve just avoided doing so for the last 12 years for fear of being denounced a vicious trollop and marched out.

Don’t underestimate how far my dad and I have gone to avoid this conversation. Before now, if I’d thought about having children, I’d seriously considered claiming immaculate conception. This might be one of the most painful chats we’ve had in my entire adult life, yet even through the fierce teeth-clenching, I’m still aware of how ridiculous the entire thing is.