‘Bloody hell, Harry, you’re rooting Angela, aren’t you? You told me once you fancied her . . . Even though she has about as much personality as she has hair. She’s nearly bald, you know. It’s all extensions.’ What I lacked in clarity I now made up for by hiccupping heavily. When I recovered, I added, ‘I know you think you’re god’s gift, Ange, but truth is, you’ve passed your bore-by date. You light up a room by leaving it. Last week you held a meeting to discuss our overuse of paper clips. We have a desalination plant going rusty, holes in the s . . . s . . . shark net and a crack in the nuclear reactor, and our “editor” gets us to write about a kitten that looks like Hitler, a mum finding a gecko in her fridge and grass growing quickly after rain. These are the things that keep me awake at night, I can tell you.’

The alcohol in my system made the guests a little blurry; rather than a group of well-dressed suburbanites, they now appeared to be one giant, indistinct, gasping amoeba. A voice from far back in my cerebrum told me to maybe call it quits. I suspected I was about one drink away from waking up in an unfamiliar nation with nipple jewellery, but it was too late, because my mouth had already set off on another sortie down self-destruction street, despite it being clearly signposted TURN BACK, YOU ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY.

‘And we all know about the kickbacks, Ange. Why else would you ask us to go easy on certain developers and local big shots? Plus, you shred paperwork faster than Trump’s accountant. The whole office knows you only got the job because of your big-boobed, playboy-pet look . . . So, did you crawl through Angela’s cat flap, Harry?’

‘For the love of god, Ruby, put down the bloody mic!’ Harry begged, as band members frantically plugged in their instruments.

‘D’you know what? It’s my birthday and I’ll implode if I want to. Actually, it feels pretty damn good. One of my greatest regrets, apart from not being Nora Ephron, is that I’ve never s . . . s . . . said what I really think. Nope. Not to anybody, really.’

‘Why not buy a vineyard, Ruby, and cut out the middleman?’ a high-pitched voice heckled from the crowd.

My eyes snagged onto the culprit. It was Karina, one of the school mums whose company I’d endured since our now-eighteen-year-old daughters had met on the kindergarten mat. Karina rolled her eyes condescendingly in my direction and puckered her collagen-filled lips in disapproval.

‘Oh, Karina, by the way, your husband sent the babysitter a dick pick. She showed her mum, Shaz, who showed all the other mums. Oh, and Shaz, your perfect hubby groped me at your anniversary party. Isn’t that right, Robbo?’