Mostly Harmless

For about the last 12 months, in every photo of me taken after midnight, I seem to have my lips planted firmly on the cheeks of the nearest unfortunate soul - usually with a massive grin on my face and a half-empty glass sloshing around in my hand. In one or two forums this persistent trend has gained me a reputation that I suspect may be quite hard to shake, not to mention my own growing concern that I might be turning into some kind of crazy cougar wannabe.

This weekend, nursing yet another festive hangover and reviewing the latest batch of photos on Facebook, I realised the happy truth: it’s not that I’ve turned into some kind of minor sex pest, it’s actually all about the cheekbones.

No, really! Puckering up to the person next to me is the only absolutely guaranteed way of faking the bone structure that genetics failed to grant – and as an added bonus, it hides the second chin that certain relatives (who shall remain nameless) tell me is the curse of our family once we hit our late 20s. (Well, that and the raging alcoholism.)

I have to say, as strategies go, it’s really not that bad.