Oh the nonchalance of monkey sex. She raised her hips slightly to make things more convenient for him, still chewing the banana peel she’d just found.

Pumpetypumpetypumpetypump he jiggled as he glanced casually about him, then strolled off without pausing to draw breath. He would have sweated more changing trees. She didn’t bother to glance in his direction as the banana was infinitely more interesting. This could have been a moment of conception. Their lives would never be more meaningful and yet it couldn’t have been more reckless.

This vision of simplicity appeared before me while ludicrous sexual intrigues were being debated in sweaty whispers at my school. They were depressingly adolescent rumours. One girl was supposedly shagging her fourth boy in a month, having managed to drag another girl into her entertainingly pornographic life on one particularly inspired night. It was obvious these stories were exaggerated, even though two boys swore they’d heard her grunting, but everyone was enjoying bugging their eyes at the stories too much to be sceptical.