Is it ever wise to stay ‘friends’ with people you’ve been more than buddies with? 

There are two things in life that I know to be true: 1) Kittens are better than babies, and 
2) There is no stupider practice than to stay friends with an ex. I’ll assume we’re all agreed on the first one, but given that two ex-boyfriends recently tried to friend.

Just so you know, it wasn’t an organised approach. They weren’t in it together as some sort of ‘Used to Go Out with Ceri’ Facebook group (although I might look that up, just in case it does exist). No, it was pure coincidence that they both tried to make contact around the same time, more than a decade after our last encounter.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want to be friends. I don’t ever want to see them again. It’s probably the only thing on which Paris Hilton and I see eye-to-eye. When she broke up with Backstreet Boy Nick Carter, her take on it was, “I don’t even want to say his name. A lot of girls are bad at dumping guys. I’m not one of them.” Never has there been a wiser woman.

In all seriousness, though, there are a number of reasons why a clean break is the sensible approach. For a start, I simply don’t want to hang out with anyone who’s had a close-up view of my lady parts. Secondly, if that physical over-exposure is a bit uncomfortable, being reminded of having bared all emotionally is even worse. After all, there’s a very good chance you told them, “I love you.” Repeatedly, even. When you felt so strongly about someone, isn’t it weird to be around them when it’s no longer the case?

Those things alone are bad enough, but it’s the third spoke on the post-relationship axis that’s the sharpest. And it is this: Even though you were besotted by this person at the time, later on, once the love myxomatosis has cured itself, nine times out of 10 it turns out they’re actually a bit of a dickhead. Once those loved-up hormones have run out and you’ve had this moment of enlightenment, there are two consequences. Firstly, 
an instant desire to put extreme distance between you and this character you once thought so amazing, and secondly, utter embarrassment that you didn’t notice sooner.

Bearing all that in mind, do we really think the notion of staying friends with an ex is the “mature” and “healthy” thing to do? Do we really need a walking, talking, interactive souvenir of all the broken promises, juvenile hopes and entry-level sex? No we do not. And yet people are out there putting themselves through it, even as I write this. A survey by RSVP.com.au found that 32 per cent of us have stayed friends 
with an old flame. WTF?

Brad Pitt gets it. Remember late last year, when he suggested in an interview that life was boring when he was with ex-wife Jennifer Aniston? From the deafening gasp of media outrage that followed, you’d have thought he’d just told the world Jen liked to wear the same pair of knickers two days in a row, rather than the entirely less surprising revelation that she errs towards the vanilla. People were genuinely shocked. Why? Because he broke the age-old rule: thou shalt not badmouth thine ex.

OK, it may have been a touch not-cricket to air his dirty laundry like that, but at least he was being honest. His life is better now, so why pretend it isn’t? Clearly he has no issue with consigning the lovers that came before — and all trace of them — to the past. It’s something I was confronted with myself when I visited my parents overseas last month.

Us kids all moved out years ago, but the familial loft is still stuffed full of our essays on King Lear, obsolete stereo systems and posters of musclebound men holding babies, so every time I visit, I have a bit of a clear out.

This time, on climbing the ladder, I found an unmarked shoebox. Excited by what might be inside, I brought it down and lifted the lid. As soon as I saw the handwriting, I knew. These were love letters from an ex.

There were poems. There were cards with teddy bears on the front clutching love hearts and roses. There were hopes written in French, and plans scrawled on napkins. And was I filled with 
a warm glow of nostalgia?

Did I smile and wonder where he is now, and if he’s happy? Did I hell. It was like coming face-to-face with an early prototype of myself. The relationship flashed in front of me like a reality show recap, and it felt really, really unsettling. Not only did I not want to be friends with this person, I didn’t need 
a blow-by-blow chronicle of the time we spent together.

So, what do you do with a bunch of love letters in a dusty shoebox? Well, obviously, this. Rather than put them in the recycling bin at home and risk Mum and Dad coming across a potted history of their first-born’s love life, 1992-1995, I shoved the time capsule into my bag, said goodbye, and got on the train to head back home. I didn’t have a plan; I just had to get it out of the house, but all the while I could feel it giving off a negative energy, like a lump of nuclear waste.

It was at this point that I discovered I was on the wrong train. I got off at the next station to change lines, and found myself in a town I’d never been in before, and would never visit again. Where better to dispose of my emotional baggage. With a furtive glance around me, I dropped it into a bin, got on the correct train, and disappeared to live my life in the present, not the past. As for those Facebook friend requests, let’s just say I didn’t take quite as much of a scenic route in delivering them to the trash.