I’m mercifully rostered on to day shifts for the next month in the emergency department, but that still means 8 am to 6 pm, making it difficult to achieve any decent efforts at life admin—which has never been a strong point even when I’m not working a billion hours a week. I flee the emergency department as soon as possible, after explaining to Mr J why I can’t feed his opioid addiction by giving him the four boxes of Endone he’s requesting for his headache, suggesting that he should be linked in with the chronic pain service instead. He tells me to fuck off, which I agree to do enthusiastically, just so long as he offers me the same courtesy and lets me finish my shift in peace.

I’m a woman, I tell myself as I run home, change out of my scrubs, and stare at the to-do list on my phone. How hard can it be? I have less than twenty-fours in which to become a domestic goddess. Despite having had three and a half weeks to prepare for the dinner, my Nigella ways have been stymied by my long shifts in the emergency department, and Winnie has suffered a stress-related bout of tonsillitis. We have left all preparation until the night before.

I am about to run down the stairs to head to the shops when I hear Winnie climbing up to my attic room.

‘I’ve made the list for the entrees,’ she is saying, waving a piece of paper at me. ‘I just need to confirm the numbers.’ She stops talking and stares at my bedroom the evening prior to the most important night of my entire life, and winces. ‘Mate, this is no good,’ she says. ‘This is no good.’

‘I doubt we’ll be coming up to my bedroom,’ I say defensively. ‘Can’t I just shut the door?’

‘What if they want a tour?’ she says. ‘You can’t let them see this. You look like a hoarder. Anyway, back to the numbers: Max is working, so he can’t come, but do you know if Dr Prince is bringing his wife?’

‘That’s a good question,’ I respond. I’ve been wondering the same thing.

‘I mean, I guess you didn’t specify when you texted him whether or not she was invited,’ Winnie points out. ‘So he might bring her. And that means we have a problem: we don’t have enough chairs.’

‘Should I text him to say if he’s bringing his wife he has to, you know …’ I pause, realising how ridiculous this sounds.

‘BYO chair?’

Winnie and I collapse into tears of laughter. Here at 19 North Avenue, we’ll supply the booze and good times, but you have to bring your own chair.

‘Look, he knows it’s just Wolfgang and Tomas and us,’ I reason. ‘He might realise we’re all, you know, going it solo, and do the same.’