Back in 2016, the world was in flux: the UK was reeling after Brexit , while Donald Trump geared up for his first presidency on the other side of the Atlantic. I was in flux, too. Freshly 23 and not long living in London, I felt that adulthood was finally underway, and began casting around for sticks to measure it against.

Enter, Fleabag : the first season of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s dark comedy hit me like a lightning bolt when it was released that August. “I have a horrible feeling that I’m a greedy, perverted, selfish, apathetic, cynical, depraved, morally bankrupt woman,” she said directly to my soul, sorry, the camera, in that fourth-wall-shattering way that would come to both define the show and echo the uncanny, “post-truth” era we were entering. How could I – any of us – resis

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