I looked up at my spouse. Harry had slicked his hair back for the occasion – a shellacked wave of sun-kissed locks. He’s always had great hair. It’s one of the reasons I first fell for the bronzed surfer boy, because he boasted the longest hair in high school. But it was about to stand on end now.

‘Father Gallagher married us,’ I clarified for the crowd. ‘We said our vows – for better or worse . . . Sadly, he didn’t ask you to clarify exactly how much worse, Harry. I mean, flossing your teeth in bed is bad enough, but having an affair?’ I swerved my head back towards the audience so fast I felt my blotto-ed brain crashing into the sides of my cranium. ‘For any guests who don’t live in this comfortably padded lunatic asylum known, euphemistically, as the “Insular Peninsular”, my Harry runs a service called “Hire a Hubby”. He does odd jobs for women all over the area . . . I just didn’t realise he was s . . . s . . . servicing them, literally. You’ve been wielding your toolbox here, there and everywhere, haven’t you, my’—I paused to punctuate my accusation with a small burp—‘love? You’re always telling me how the ladies love the tradies.’

There was a quick and nervous burst of laugher from somewhere, but most of the room remained awkwardly spellbound.

‘Don’t be ridiculous, love. Pay no attention to the silly, sozzled sausage!’ Harry instructed the gathering, with mock bonhomie. ‘Turning fifty has been a bit traumatic for the poor possum. She’s not exactly in her right mind . . .’

‘G . . . g . . . gosh, have I lost my mind?’ I stammered. ‘I guess it’s around here somewhere. I’ll find it when I tidy up, which I do every day, despite holding down a full-time job – as, clearly, you’re too busy fixing your girlfriend’s most intimate plumbing.’

‘That’s enough!’ Fury was radiating off Harry now like cheap aftershave. ‘Let’s go outside and get some fresh air. Still,’ Harry made one more stab at jocularity before bundling me offstage, ‘it wouldn’t be a fiftieth birthday if the party girl didn’t get bladdered and talk complete bollocks, right?’

‘Complete bollocks, is it?’ In quick succession, I kneed my husband in said area, then whisked a mobile phone from the pocket of my sequined cocktail frock. ‘I took a screenshot of a text message you received while you were in the shower this morning, right after our traditional birthday bonk. Shall I sh . . . sh . . . share it with our best friends and family?’ I swooned a little, then squeezed my eyes half-closed so as to focus on the screen. ‘From you: Hello, sexy. I’m so sorry, but I’m not going to be able to make our anniversary. Work has reared its ugly head. And, unfortunately, I can’t send your gift, as it’s attached to me.’