We had been spending long lazy days indoors, hemmed in by the downpours of rainy season in a tiny town called Dali, southern China. Throughout this time, a small spark of flirty friction had been smouldering, growing between us.

You were almost a decade older than me, and had just binned off your whole career to go travelling before 30 onwards trapped you forever. I was trying to travel some early 20’s heartache out of my system. We were both in the mood to do something irresponsible.

On the last night before you left for Vietnam we left the bar together and hung back from the group, our sides pressed together under a half-knackered umbrella. I walked you to the door of your guesthouse. We stood opposite each other, chatted, said goodbye. You vanished behind a wooden door.

A beat. A sinking feeling, a familiar pre-emptive wistfulness for another avenue unexplored. A voice from inside the door. “Fuck it”.

You launched back round the door and planted a kiss with such force that I was knocked back against the wall. The rain drummed on the metal rooftops. The night porter shooed us away - although it was 2am and the streets were deserted, that’s not the way people behave in public.

We wandered out into the hammering rain, laughing, stopping, kissing more, soaking. I’ve no idea what happened to the umbrella. Eventually we found ourselves some dry refuge.

The rain drummed on the metal rooftops.

Dan - it was one of the most gloriously irresponsible things I have ever done.