Picture the scene. A rare night out in the West End of London for my friend Carrie and I, the tacky part of town we liked to think we had grown out of but still periodically revisited, documented, for prosperity, via an aggressive sequence of nightclub toilet selfies below.

I needed to let my hair down & had been invited out by my promoter friend Richard, a former romantic prospect whose brief transition from potential husband to platonic nightclub facilitator had begun, as many great love stories do, with a slightly regrettable snog in a Yo Sushi toilet after a walk along the Thames.

Anyway.

Fast-forward to approximately 2 a.m. I’m dancing my tits off in Cuckoo, a nightclub that served complimentary pasta directly onto the dancefloor which, quite frankly, is one of the strongest business models I’ve ever encountered.

Naturally I was midway through inhaling a bowl of penne in a bodycon dress when I bumped into an old friend…

… SORRY I hate to interrupt, I truly do…

.. but it has to be done, for your own good….

The OG story from the What Jade Did Next archives have now been quietly escorted backstage. All thirty plus chapters.

Not because I’ve suddenly developed a late-onset sense of shame or dignity.

Don’t be daft.

But because many of them form part of the Pretty Messy Woman memoir series, and apparently publishing books means you’re not supposed to spoil the entire emotional rollercoaster upfront. Tedious, I know. Apparently I can’t just dump ten years of psychological warfare onto the internet unsupervised anymore. Boringgggg.

I know many of you have already read it, loved it, lived it. But now that we’re entering the shelves, I’ve got to preserve a bit of mystique for the uninitiated. Soz.

A few mini-series have been excavated from the bigger arc however. Hit next to read them.