A ripple of warm laughter from other parents ran around the room. I gave an involuntary shudder, remembering how different it had felt the last time I’d stood on this stage, gazing out at the stunned faces of the people I loved.

‘My darling Zoe, I’m so proud of you too. She got great results in her HSC, an ATAR in the mid-eighties, and is now about to leave for Cambodia, where she’s going to do volunteer work in a school run by a non-profit organisation.’ I rested the pages on the lectern and spoke off the cuff again. ‘Mind you, I’m only assuming this because the inquiry “Has anyone seen my passport?” has been echoing around the house for the past two days. This usually tends to happen during the first call for boarding at the airport, so that’s a slight improvement. I probably won’t see her again until she’s married and needs me to babysit. Which is how it should be. Only in American sitcoms do mothers and daughters discuss the minutiae of their lives with each other in funny, frank exchanges that always lead to hugging. Love you, hon.’ I blew a kiss at my darling daughter, who blew a kiss in return.

‘But once you fly the nest, kids, no moving back in, okay? Human beings are the only creatures on god’s green earth who take their young back when they’re fully grown. It’s not natural. And, rest assured, if you have your revenge by locking me up in a maximum-security nursing home in thirty or forty years’ time, I will personally come back and haunt you after, okay?’

This prompted another warm wave of laughter from the parents in the room. I went back to my script.

‘And now, to my friends. Thanks for letting me slink back into book club, girls. Especially as we are doing Jeanette Winter-son . . .’ I looked up once more and added, ‘. . . which is not a sentence she’d be entirely displeased with, I’m sure. We’re also doing a book by “Anonymous”, who will invariably turn out to be a married author writing about sexual infidelity. And, next, a biography of someone or other – although, surely, biographies are a fate worse than death. Speaking of which . . .

‘To the school mums I say, we survived and lived to tell the tale! Goodbye to fetes and P & C meetings, and hello to spas in Bali, right? Yes, we’ve had our occasional clashes, but we’ve been there for each other through thick and thin . . . and thin and thin, lately,’ I said, harkening back to my drunken birthday rant.