‘Because he doesn’t talk to me.’ Amber’s skin was bone white, her lips a slash of glossy crimson. ‘Talking is foreplay for me. Scott’s always in his office, only stopping by the house occasionally for clean underwear, when he may or may not remember my name. Lack of emotional libido leaves me drier than . . .’ She trailed off.

‘Prince Andrew’s armpit?’ I suggested.

‘Exactly! It’s a wonder Scott can get it in without a shoehorn,’ she added, in a moment of tipsy candour.

‘Ah, the dreaded menopause,’ Emerald diagnosed.

‘That could explain why the only thing you’re getting between the sheets is an anticlimax,’ I agreed.

‘What are you taking for it?’ Emerald asked.

Amber shrugged. ‘Herbal infusions for my hot flushes.’

‘Fuck that. That’s like taking an aspirin for a leg amputation. You need oestrogen, progesterone and a dab of testosterone.’

‘You take testosterone?’ Amber queried. ‘Well, that explains why you’ve turned into a complete hornbag, wanting to bed every man you meet.’

Emerald eyeballed Amber. ‘Do you know me? Hello, I’m your sister. I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been chewing holes in the furniture since puberty. And anyway, why shouldn’t women enjoy sex? Females are criticised for sowing their wild oats but then we also get punished for going to seed.’

‘HRT is mare’s urine, you know,’ Amber pointed out, cringing, an unspoken reprimand in her brusque manner.

‘Really? Soon you’ll be saying “yeah” or “neigh”, tossing your mane and counting with one foot,’ I joked, in an effort to placate Emerald.

‘I suggest you donate any dosh you were going to spend on all those Scandinavian menopausal “remedies” to the charity of your choice, Amber, and make the world a better bloody place, because it will have more of an impact than swallowing a herb to counteract hormonal upheaval,’ Emerald sniped.

I could feel a clash escalating and went into full appeasement mode. ‘One thing’s clear, girls. God is a bloke. What else would explain all the biological ordeals women endure?’ I Neville Chamberlain-ed. ‘Getting taken hostage by our hormones once a month, then pregnancy, where you swell to sumo-wrestler proportions, followed by childbirth, where you stretch your birth canal by the customary ten kilometres . . .’

‘Yes, then mastitis, followed by the menopause.’ Amber started counting off biological inconveniences on her fingertips.

‘And then, just when everything goes quiet, do you know what happens? You grow a beard. How can that be fair?’ I kvetched. ‘I could make a macramé hanging basket with my chin hairs right now.’