Unless you are living completely off the grid, with no access to the internet or Google Alerts, you have been recently flooded with a plethora of red-hot stories, gifted to us by Harry and Meghan, the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. The Oprah interview, the Netflix docu-series/reality show and most recently, Harry’s tell-all book, The Spare. The media, with a frenzy equal to newly hatched turtles rushing to the ocean, have been diving into those waters to digest, dissect, discuss, judge, condemn and regurgitate every last word. Like so many of us, I have officially reached my peak, my saturation level of Sussex consumption. So I swore I wasn’t going to write about it. The war of The Sussexes.

But something happened to me last week, twice, in fact, that has led me to keep this dialogue going.

Not one, but two friendly, white tablecloth dinners, out with intelligent friends, metamorphized into a full-out, drag ‘um down bar fight debate about the most polarising subject in the UK since Brexit, Harry and Meghan. I am not interested in highlighting the obvious conflicts of one of the world’s most famous dysfunctional families or once again discussing the “rivalry, jealousy and competing agendas” between Harry and his wife, the Sussexes, and Prince William and Kate, the Cambridges. The proverbial “they said/the Monarch said.” You can buy the book. Nor do I want to talk about Oprah, the Netflix series, or Harry’s “frost-bitten todger” (cringe).