Our house was all Italian tiles and big windows. During the day, its rooms were seared with light. I used to so enjoy opening the blinds every morning. But now I opened the blinds then quickly closed them again, convinced that the best way to start the day was to go back to bed. Curled around my pillow, I’d watch the ABC weather report, but was so fogged with sadness I’d somehow not tune in properly until the presenter had passed Sydney and was now making predictions for Melbourne, Adelaide, Perth. If only there were a reliable forecast of my moods. When could I look forward to a bold, sunny front approaching?

My eyes in the mirror were pink and watery, like a laboratory rabbit’s. I’d also lost my appetite, felt constantly tired and often nauseous. Plus, my head ached, all the time. I didn’t seek a medical opinion. No, I could self-diagnose this one – chronic love sickness, with no known cure. It was remiss of the Department of Health not to issue a warning that falling in love with a doctor can be seriously hazardous to a woman’s health.

When symptoms persisted and then became worse, I put it down to the peri-menopause. It had finally arrived and was clearly kicking in with a vengeance. I needed a panacea. What I really needed was someone with a good bedside manner. But Brody was off exploring somewhere exotic and aquatic, exact coordinates unknown. An alternative cure would be a big dose of my sisters – but Emerald and Amber were still both ignoring me.

Ten days before Christmas, I poured myself a giant gin and emailed them.

Dear Only Two People in Australia Who Ruby Ryan Actually Likes,

Since my exile into Social Siberia I’ve been so frantically busy, what with the Aldi sale and the dishwasher filter needing changing.

As you know, my bitchy boss at the newspaper put me on sick leave. She knows I’m one hundred per cent fine, but has obviously finally realised that I’m wholly unnecessary and was basically only in the job for the free parking, and that my work could easily be done by a wombat with a dictaphone. This means that I suddenly have quite a lot of spare time, and quite a lot of leftover birthday chocolate to eat and vodka to drink, if either of you are hungry or thirsty?

Now unemployed, I spend a lot of time learning Spanish by watching El Chapo on Netflix. I can now say ‘Where are the drugs?’, ‘Kill him slowly’, ‘Torture a confession out of him’ and ‘Give it to me, big boy’. The neighbours must think I’m running a brothel or a meth lab. I also watch re-runs of I’m a Celebrity . . . Get Me Out of Here! all night, just to remind myself that there are people out there far more desperate than I am.