‘What do you like in bed?’
Erm, you mean like 1,000-thread-count pillowcases, a memory-foam topper and eggs benedict cheffed up by a Thelma & Louise-era Brad Pitt?
‘No, sexually.’
Whaaattt?
Honestly, when I was asked that question by my boyfriend it elicited discomfort levels akin to running a marathon in a thong two sizes too small.
When it comes to sex talk I’m more buttoned-up than Kim Jong-un’s shirt.
Why is it we can happily answer personal questions from the medical profession on the quantity of alcohol units we consume (halve it, then knock a few off for good measure) with less squirming than we can talk with our partners about our erogenous zones?