I don’t get that either but, before I can ask, she hands me the same magazine I read six times in the waiting room and I’m treated to another glimpse of hairy Brooklyn and interviews with Liam Payne’s mother and the Britain’s Got Talent failure who’s had twenty facelifts and still hates himself.

We used to play Britain’s Got Talent at the pub. It would be after the kitchen had closed for the evening. Auntie Chelle would be helping Uncle Stu in the bar and the boys would be upstairs and me and Foy would sneak down for midnight feasts of still-warm chips from the fryers and leftover baguette ends dipped in salad cream. We’d take it in turns to come through from the utility room, telling a sob story to the panel of stuffed toys on the breakfast bar then screech ‘Flying Without Wings’ into a vinegar bottle. Miss Whiskers and Thread Bear always put us through to Bootcamp.

After half an hour, Steffi returns. ‘Let’s get you washed. Leave her with Jodie.’

The one called Jodie, with the shoulder tattoo of moons and stars and the white DMs, appears beside the buggy, all smiley and young. ‘Yeah, I’ll watch her for ya.’

‘Don’t let her out of your sight, will you?’ I say.

‘No probs. Can I have a little hold if she wakes up?’

‘No, I’d rather you didn’t. Thanks. She’s better left to her own devices.’

Steffi leads me back across the glittery floor to the sinks. I must get some glitter. I don’t know what for yet but I don’t use nearly enough of it. It’ll be November soon so I could get a head start on decorating for Christmas. Steffi’s pressing buttons and running water before I’ve even sat down. As I do, a bizarre kneading sensation begins in my lower back, rising up my spine and into my shoulder blades.

‘Oh my god!’ I jerk forwards and I realise it’s one of those massage chairs.

‘Is it too hard for you?’ she asks.

‘Um, no, sorry. I just never tried one before.’

‘Do you want me to turn it off?’

‘No, it’ll be fine. I think.’

‘It’s supposed to help you relax,’ she says. ‘But some people don’t like the feel of it. Let me know if it gets too much.’

I lie back again and within moments I’m letting out involuntary grunts at the luscious deep kneading all over my back. I’m making noises people usually only make when they do naughties. Luckily, there are too many dryers on for anyone to hear me.

‘I’ve recently started selling Avon on the side actually,’ says Steffi out of nowhere. ‘Would you be interested in a catalogue?’

‘Uh—’

‘And I’m organising a party at my place on Saturday night if you’re free?’