‘I know some of you are thinking that I’m not myself. But maybe this is my real self? Somewhere along the way, I feel as though I lost my identity. I may need to go to a police line-up and see if anyone can make an ID. But I know I don’t want to be this person anymore – all decorative, demure and self-sacrificing. I don’t want to sit at home tending my herbaceous borders. I want to cross borders, into exotic places. I want to get a pet quokka, and wear nothing but sequins. I want to be told off by my progeny because they saw me coming out of a nightclub at two am, and then reply, “Well, you’re mistaken, kids. I wasn’t coming out. I was going in!” I want to write a novel, not posthumously, or anonymously, but honestly. About dying.’

A traumatised gasp rose up from the audience. Not again, I could hear them thinking.

‘What the fuck?’ I heard my husband moan as he put his head in his hands. Clearly this performance of mine was rating high on the old Jerry Springer–ometer. Not wishing to be carted off in a straitjacket before I’d said my piece, I put down my notes and picked up my glass of champagne from the podium.

‘About cheating death, I mean, before it’s too late. So, please join me in raising a glass to my mother – to Ruth.’ I saluted our departed matriarch.

‘As I said at the beginning of this mea culpa, which is going on longer than War and Peace, so I’ll shut up in a minute . . . Once upon a time there was a woman who discovered she’d turned into the wrong person. But no longer. My sisters and I have a new motto, don’t we, girls? Growing old may be compulsory but growing up is optional. Adventure before dementia!’ I shouted into the mic, before laying it down and polishing off my glass of champers in one long gulp.

I walked towards the front of the stage to enthusiastic whoops and cheers from my two loyal sisters. The rest of the function room stood spellbound in overawed silence. But then Leyla joined in the clapping, moving next to Amber and linking arms. ‘I’ve Got Scott’, who post-divorce would be demoted to ‘I’ve Not Got Scott’, glowered nearby, arms folded, clearly contemplating ringing Amnesty International to say that his pampered husband rights were being abused. I then saw Alessandro close the space between himself and Emerald and slide his arm around her. I noted how she leant into him affectionately. The surreptitiously applied testosterone gel was clearly working its hormonal magic. Sandro didn’t cheer me on, but didn’t look at me as though I had coronavirus, either, which was something, all things considered.