There are some crushes that ought to be crushed. When I was about nine, I fancied our village vicar — he had a pleasant, boring face and would throw Mars bars into the congregation during sermons.
Things came to a halt after I saw him by chance at a local swimming pool. Underneath his cassock was a lawn of hair so dark, you couldn’t see his skin. Even his arms were furred. I was, in the way of many nine-year-olds, ruthless in my judgement. I stopped fancying him at once and avoided him at church, calling him 'Gorilla Priest' in my head.
Years on, I find myself contending with another embarrassing crush. I have a bit of a thing for Jeremy Corbyn — or 'Jessica Chastain' as I like to call him in company. It’s much easier saying 'Gosh Jessica Chastain is hot,' than saying the same about Jeremy Corbyn.