But from Nicole’s perspective, I imagine I was quickly becoming her worst nightmare. I was shouty and overly enthusiastic, as apparently that’s the way this party gal rolled. But this party gal was also a secret weapon, Nicole just didn’t know it yet.

Because although I was getting less sober, I was also getting more shouty and enthusiastic, so when Nicole asked for us to move on, I quickly became the person who was up and chivvying. I even held out people’s coats to speed up the process. As if I was somebody who enjoyed organised fun.

And as soon as we arrive at our actual destination, I rather wish I hadn’t chivvied.

We’re at a gym.

What on earth are we doing at a gym?

‘Ladies!’ An extremely camp man sashays around the corner. ‘We are here today to become Queens! Queen Beys!’

I have no idea what that means. Did he say my name?

‘I’m going to guide you through her most iconic work of dance – “Single Ladies”.’

On any normal day this might fill me with dread. But the current version of me, the one who does tequila shots at 4 p.m., actually claps and runs to get a space at the front, eager to watch (and try my very hardest to follow) what the dance instructor is doing.

And he is good. He makes me want to dance. He makes me want to become a Queen Bey. But unfortunately his skill only goes so far. Every time I spy myself in the mirror, I’m not positioned how everyone else is. He knows I’m bad and at first he tries to help me, but soon gives up, saying, ‘You gotta work with what ya got.’

And I don’t got this.

I should have had more tequila, so at least I won’t be able to remember the singular pain and humiliation that comes with being particularly bad at enforced group activities. But towards the end of the hour, despite the overall lack of coordination possessed by our dance troupe, he still insists on putting on a show, a show with Tills as the lead Bey.

I make a mental note to delete all footage of this. An act that everyone will thank me for.

And right at the part where we are all supposed to be bending down and stroking our bums, the lights go out. The music stops. There must have been a power cut.

The scene is quiet; a couple of people try to be proactive and take charge, a couple of others squeal.

But then a different song starts playing. Disco lights are going off everywhere. And someone dressed as a delivery man and holding a box comes in.

‘I’ve got a special delivery for Matilda Bertram.’

Nicole’s face is a picture of pure joy. Holy shit. She’s organized a stripper. Most of me, and apparently everyone else, is shouting ‘Yaaaaaaaas’. And just like that, all the wandering around in the cold and damp, the dancing and the rushed prosecco, has been forgiven and forgotten. Even the dance instructor is smiling.