“No, no, stop doing that,” I say quickly, cutting you off as you start to give me an excuse on why you have to leave. Again.

It’s the night of the BRITs, and I’m a little bit tipsy. Just a little bit. I’m no lightweight, not at all. But I have enough in my system to call you out on this ridiculous charade you’ve been playing for years with me.

You’re another singer, and we’re slight acquaintances. We’ll say ‘hello’ in passing, exchange brief smiles, our managers are friends, so on.

But for whatever reason, every time I approach you and try to start an actual conversation, you come up with some excuse to avoid me. I’m sick of it. I don’t know why, but I am.

“You always walk away when I try to talk to you,” I call you out, discarding my drink on a nearby table. “Why? Did I do something? Did your manager tell you something?”

“Is it my reputation or something? Because I swear to God, I’m not at all what the media acts like I am,” I continue to ramble.

Alright, maybe I’m a little bit more than just tipsy.