It’s the night of the Christmas party and you hand Gaz a Christmas sweater, your eyes sparkling. “I got it custom made!”

He unfolds it to reveal a garish, bright red sweater with your faces stitched onto the front, framed by a giant knitted heart.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says, holding it up.

It’s at least two sizes too small, clinging to him like shrink wrap. You double over, tears streaming as he tries to stretch his arms. “I look like a sausage,” he grumbles.