I demonstrated the walk, teetering in reverse in my heels. This drew a splutter of laughter from my flummoxed guests, especially when I fell over and lost a chicken fillet from my push-up bra. It lay quivering at my feet like a stranded jellyfish. Perhaps the guests would mistake it for a stress-relieving executive squeezy toy, I thought, vaguely, kicking it into the crowd.

‘Ruth’s only mothering advice? To never go out without lippy. You should never have had children, Mum – that’s like feeding live chickens to an alligator. You think I’m joking?’ I asked nobody in particular as I hauled myself back up to standing. ‘She named her three daughters after precious jewels – Emerald, Amber and Ruby – but she tells us now we’re little more than cut glass, our lives a cheap imitation. At least Dad was warm and fun and loved us. Sure, he didn’t exactly regard matrimony as an exclusive carnal arrangement, but we loved him. Why would you punish us for that?’

My mother made a face like a snail that had just eaten a slug pellet. I had never, ever spoken back to her, but I was sure as hell making up for it now. After such a brilliant demonstration of ambassadorial diplomacy, a job as a UN hostage negotiator surely beckoned.

‘My sisters aren’t talking to each other, by the way, thanks to Mum poisoning them against each other. And I’m always left rushing around trying to patch things up . . . I’m the youngest, you see, so my family tend to bounce me back and forth like a shuttlecock on a badminton court.’

The band were finally tuning up. Insulted guests were making for the doors, led by Debbie and Celeste. Abandoned plates were being lofted back to the kitchen by waiters wearing rictus smiles. Some guests started booing from the back. ‘Hey, Ruby, you really should get out less,’ someone heckled. ‘Do you intend finishing this diatribe any time in my life span?’ bemoaned another.

‘Okay, okay, I’ll finish,’ I said, trying in vain to shrug off my two burly manhandlers, who were back with a vengeance. ‘But one more thing before I go . . . The principal news, aside from my birthday breakdown, is that I have metastatic pancreatic cancer. Terminal.’

The collective intake of breath sounded like an asthma attack.

‘I only found out today. With so little time left, you’re probably wondering what would I like most in the world? To patch things up with my sisters, actually. Mum, you’ve successfully alienated us from each other for so long, making us compete to be top of your speed dial. Well, enough is enough. Emerald, Amber . . . I’ve booked the three of us onto the next cruise ship leaving Sydney. On S . . . S . . . Saturday. For three weeks – to clean the slate before I cark it. You can’t say no, girls, it’s my dying wish . . .’