We all know the ritual: a hangover that feels like a minor moral failing, a lingering whisper of shame, and that slightly panicked dash to Boots. You clutch your purse like it contains state secrets, rehearsing the words that must escape your mouth without sounding like a human emergency alert. The pharmacist, ever the stoic sentinel of aisle three, gives you the patented “young lady, really?” look – equal parts incredulity, compassion, and judgement. You die a little inside, but secretly admire their poker face.

For me, things got a bit more… theatrical once I was very fresh into my sexual expression. I had to secretly negotiate with my mum's partner for cash to fund my emergency contraception. He muttered something about “responsibility” as he handed over a crumpled note. I avoided eye contact. He avoided conversation. It was an apex of awkward family bonding – the kind of scenario that deserves its own sitcom.