Moving out of the flat I’d lived in since 2017, I found a near-empty Marc Jacobs perfume that had been kicked under the bed and left to fossilise. As the last drops came wheezing out of the bottle, they had the disorientating effect of transporting me back to my early twenties, complete with visceral hangover. I had a near-identical response when watching the opening episodes of Everything I Know About Love.
Semi-fictionalised from Dolly Alderton’s wildly successful memoir, which reached every-millennial-woman-on-the-tube-is-reading-this levels of ubiquity upon its release in 2018, it careers along in a giddy rush of nostalgia that is hard to resist if you came of age around the time that Kate Moss was flogging pansy-print tea dresses for Topshop.
