A good half an hour is spent introducing me to every single member of Marlon’s family, who for some reason all want to meet me. Everything is, ‘Oh, so this is Ben, then?’ and nobody asks any awkward questions about hospital or how I found Christmas dinner or anything like that.

Throughout most of this, I’m carrying the new Simon family puppy, Henry, who is the tiniest and palest pug puppy I have ever seen. Henry falls asleep in my arms and I fall immediately in love with him.

Marlon’s other dog, a border collie named Nelly, trails along behind us, occasionally bopping her nose against my leg. I wish my parents let me have pets.

Marlon’s mum still has her cracker hat on and, even though I’ve seen her numerous times since I came home, she gives me a hug lasting at least ten seconds longer than is socially acceptable. I don’t really mind, though.

After that, Marlon drags me up to his room so I can change clothes, despite my protests that I don’t mind staying in my soaked jeans.

As I’m changing, Marlon’s lounging on his big double bed. He’s wearing his usual old jeans, but with them he’s got on this bright red jumper with reindeer patterns on it. It’s disgusting and absolutely hilarious.

‘I like your jumper,’ I say, as I’m doing my belt up. ‘It’s very sexual’

Marlon looks down, as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he says. ‘I know, right.’ He looks up at me and waggles his eyebrows. ‘So seductive.’

I pick up my damp jeans from the floor, chuck them at his face, and laugh as he dramatically rolls of his bed in an attempt to catch them.

‘I like your jumper, he says, after crawling back on to his bed, a small smile playing on his lips. ‘Whoever picked that out has proper taste.’

I’m momentarily confused and then realise I’m wearing Marlon’s navy Adidas jumper. I ‘borrow’ it a few months back and then ‘forgot’ to give it back.

Look, boyfriend jumpers are the best, okay? Big, comfy, and they smell good.

‘Oh. Oops,’ I say.

I inspect myself in the mirror. Marlon’s jeans, pretty much the same as mine, but several sizes larger, look ridiculous on me. I groan heavily.

‘I look like a nineties boy-band member.’

Marlon appears behind me. He’s not actually much taller than me, he’s just broader. Which is great from, like, an aesthetic perspective. But not from a clothes-sharing perspective.

‘Well, it’s this or joggers, and I guarantee my mum will have something to say if you turn up to our Christmas party in joggers.’

‘I think joggers would make me look even more like a member of the Backstreet Boys.’

‘Nothing wrong with the Backstreet Boys.’