The voice went through me like a chainsaw. My attention was immediately drawn back to the top table. ‘Oh, hello, Mother. I didn’t recognise you without your cross. Mum’s always criticising her three daughters for juggling our kids and careers so badly . . . even though you haven’t got out of bed for a full day’s work since about, what, 1974, have you, Mother? She blames us for protecting our darling dad, you see, and hiding his affairs. Well, you can gloat now, Mum, because clearly I’ve married a man just like him.’

My mother retreated into stony indignation, wreathed in an air of outraged integrity.

‘Where are my darling kids? Zoe? Jake?’ Shielding my eyes against the lights, I located my gobsmacked offspring by the side of the stage. They were peering up at their normally sunny, funny mother with open-mouthed incredulity. ‘Thank god I’ve never given you what my mother gave me – the gift of self-loathing, insecurity and anxiety.’

The predatory look my mother sent my way could have secured her the title role in a Dracula movie. But I pushed on regardless, as another realisation hit me with the impact of an Exocet missile from Life’s Blindingly Obvious launch pad.

‘Jesus.’ I swivelled to stare at Harry, who was still noisily untangling himself from the snare drum. ‘This morning, you were thinking of her the whole time, weren’t you? That’s why you had your eyes closed! Oh, well, whoever you are, I’m sorry you’ve had to experience that. Harry’s never been that good in bed. I did once scream “Oh god! Oh god!” but that was only because I’d just seen a huge huntsman spider on the bedroom ceiling over his shoulder.’

With the help of my brothers-in-law, Harry had now scrambled back to his feet. ‘Start the bloody music!’ he called out in desperation.

‘My advice to your girlfriend?’ I tottered to the front of the stage and scrutinised the women below. ‘Don’t make the mistake of turning f . . . f . . . fifty. Stay young . . . Although, ironically, I should probably offer to pay you child support. I mean, you’ve just taken a fifty-one-year-old teenager off my hands. Our priest is here somewhere. Hello, Father Gallagher? Can you show yourself?’

‘Music! Goddamn it!’ Harry demanded, as the band fumbled into position.

‘Well, Father, wherever you are . . . My query is, can we get an annulment after twenty-eight years of marriage? My other question is, can a fifty-year-old woman with a varicose vein wear heels and date again? . . . Oh, fudge.’

My eyes landed upon my boss, a statuesque, thirty-something brunette with alabaster skin, who’d been mysteriously parachuted into the role of editor at the local paper despite a total lack of qualifications. I groped down the cerebral equivalent of the back of the sofa and remembered something else.