I was used to Amber spending more time chewing over the merits of each mouthful than actually masticating, a habit that made the rest of us want to impale her on our fork prongs. So it was a novelty to see her delighting in food as though it were a whole new experience. In some ways it was; it was rare for her to have the opportunity to eat anything she hadn’t had to cook.

Emerald, meanwhile, was more interested in the human menu. Her carnal appetites were just a different form of comfort eating, really. ‘It’s a male smorgasbord out there. Shall I go for the athletic or the aesthetic? The manly, the laddish, the beardy or the blondie, the purple-tipped dreads, the man bun or the baldy? Two glasses of white wine and I’m anybody’s,’ she giggled.

While drowning your sorrows in semen may not be recognised by therapists as a legitimate coping strategy, it’d been decades since I’d seen Emerald so upbeat and happy, or Amber not short-tempered due to hunger pangs and low blood sugar.

I did feel wretched about causing my sisters angst over my false diagnosis, but I convinced myself that I was also doing them some good, as both had embraced my ‘carpe the hell out of the diem’ approach to life with alacrity. Displaying my professional dedication to the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the varnished truth, a commitment that has clearly made me the respected and acclaimed journo I am today – ha-ha – I said to them, ‘The best thing you can both do for me is to have fun.’

The first sign that Emerald was going full cougar was when she burst back into our suite fresh from the boutique, festooned with shopping bags – including one that held a new olive-green bikini for me.

Amber and I were in the middle of changing out of our wet cossies to get ready for lunch in the Tuscan Grille when she summoned us to survey her purchases.

‘Jesus,’ I laughed, riffling through the bags. ‘David Attenborough could make a documentary on your wardrobe. I mean, there’s more leopard print in here than on the Serengeti.’

With pincered talons, Amber picked up a jungle-print halter-neck dress. ‘Gosh, Emerald, you’ll have to start taking malaria tablets.’

‘Perfect for prowling!’ Emerald chortled, stripping off to her bra and pants before pouring herself into a figure-hugging leopard-print minidress that offered maximum décolletage.

‘Your neckline’s got lower as your hemline’s got higher,’ Amber said disapprovingly. ‘You’re the inverse of an iceberg – ninety per cent of you is visible.’

‘It’s just camouflage for when I go hunting in the disco. You’ve got to come with me, Ruby.’

‘Two old chooks on the dance floor? It’ll be poultry in motion,’ I punned, but, as usual, my sisters were too focused on their bickering to pay me any attention.