We’re lit up with curiosity—Kim is as open mouthed and glowing as a Halloween pumpkin—but Harri has returned, and we fall silent. If we could keep gossiping for an hour, I’m sure we’d have some sexy ideas, but the pressure makes my face ache. I think about Kim at the gym, overwhelmed with lust. I think about Sam Strong, his teeth grazing a nipple, his ‘you like that, don’t you?’ and how I hate myself a little bit for liking it, and for liking what he tells me to like. Then, I think about my threesome, and the fact that I have a sexy idea on my phone, written out and ready to go. Dare I share it?

Harri is in a state of high agitation. ‘Imogen, come on!’ I know you’ve been holding out on me.’ I can see her chest, rising and falling rapidly under her cashmere polo neck. Louise looks scared, Akila looks encouraging, Kim looks hopeful and Tabitha looks out of the tiny window. ‘We’re thinking of your blog. Think sex. Desire! The Girl! What’s she doing about sex?’

Over the last three weeks, Harri has not gone for most of my non sexy ideas. She hated Israeli teen soldiers (‘So fucking done’), she hated Niksen, the ‘hot new Dutch lifestyle concept’ that was popping up in various online trend round ups (‘Doing nothing? Nothing doing!’) and she hated Growing Up in Grenfell (‘Imogen, I know it’s all very good and worthy but if I wanted to be depressed I’d throw my Sertraline out of the fucking window’). I’m proud of my blog—but I’m still not sure how I feel about writing about sex at work in such a personal way. I think I’d hoped to ‘prove’ myself with something serious. Something new. But then, I know the blog brought me here. It caught Harri’s eye. Maybe it’s time.

Still, the thing about the blog is that even though absolutely anyone can read it, it feels private. Intimate. Ninety per cent of it is me reviewing vibrators—and if I’m entirely honest, I’m so grateful to the publicists who send them that everything gets two thumbs up, as it were. As far as I can tell, most of my readers are sex bloggers themselves. It’s a tiny, cosy, deviant community where I feel entirely safe to write and share what I want to share. I thought I was progressive and positive but the thought of writing about, say, touching myself, for The Know—well, this is starting to feel like those bad dreams when I look down and notice I’m naked. And I have to resit my A levels.