I’m fairly confident my ex is already planning a nice little surprise for me this Christmas and my birthday. After all, he’s had 32 years of dedicated practice. When someone commits to a role for that long, you have to respect the consistency.

Some people bring flowers. Some bring cake. He brings disruption, drama, or perfectly timed chaos — often without needing an invitation. It’s a talent, really. Like clockwork, just as an occasion approaches, something appears. A message. A problem. A reminder of why peace is such a radical luxury.

So why stop now? Traditions matter. And this one — the mysterious ability to hover around special moments purely to dent them — has clearly been refined over decades. Christmas? Birthday? Any moment marked “joy” or “celebration” seems to activate a silent internal alarm.

Bring it on. Truly. I’d be disappointed if he didn’t stay true to form. There’s something oddly reassuring about predictability — even when it comes wrapped as sabotage. At least some things in life remain reliably the same.

And the real gift? I now recognise it for what it is — not power, not relevance, just habit. And habits, unlike people, eventually lose their effect.