Hating the gender that one chooses to have romantic truck with is so entry-level sexuality, so Bridget Jones circa 1995. For who among us can cast the first dysfunctional stone? Instead, the cumulative effect of what Jones would call f***wittage™ may be a sense of comradeship, humanity, and sandal-wearing compassion.

For, as in martial-arts movies, there are two paths the lone ranger can follow: worldliness or wisdom. The worldly will be chewed up by the contingencies of single living. They will wallow and fester and attempt to fight circumstance until finally they are driven mad to the echo of their own hollow laughter. The wise will give such shenanigans scant regard, safe in the knowledge that they have seen it all before, at a time when the “it” was prettier.

A correspondent writes: “I am besotted with a woman of my acquaintance: the love of my life; never felt anything more intensely. She feels the same. And yet, it is quite clear it is never going to work. The further we pull away from each other, the closer we are. I am so beyond any kneejerk ‘All women are bitches’ guff. We’re both as f***ed up as each other. Ultimately, it’s rather moving.”

It is a myth that all relationship acumen rests with the conjoined. Being in a long-term alliance can de-skill its participants to a point where all is complacency and sparring. Being single can be the testing ground where one hones relationship prowess: endurance, tolerance, peace that passeth understanding.

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