‘That’s very sweet, Miss Gracie. But we’ll be all right,’ Poppy insists. ‘We’re worker bees. Lots of people are leaving voluntarily. Titan will move us to another show, if it comes to that, which it won’t. Let’s get this face sorted for you.’ Poppy jiggles what appears to be a cosmetic bag she has in hand. ‘My magic bag of tricks,’ she says.

The bag is emblazoned with hologram images of Astro Boy rocketing through space. I assess the array of make-up on Poppy’s face. It’s a look she can get away with – sort of. I, most certainly, cannot. However, neither can I meet with those impeccably groomed Americans in my current dishevelled state.

Poppy’s favourite DJ plays the late set at a Brixton club on Sunday evenings, beginning at the ridiculous time of around midnight. She’s well regarded for appearing as fresh as a daisy every Monday regardless. Perhaps, in this instance, she is best placed? It’s that or I take my chances back with Brenda, who certainly does my face no favours.

‘A bit less of the “magic”, Poppy, and I might be persuaded. The meeting starts at 3. You don’t have long.’

Perhaps, I should have requested David Blaine levels of magic?

Poppy plonks me atop the rubbish bin as a makeshift seat, out of eyeline of any of the mirrors. ‘You relax here.’

First, Poppy dabs my eyes dry with a piece of tissue. Then with a wet wipe that smells of cucumber she removes all remnants of Brenda’s professionally applied make-up. With her face right up close to mine, I notice the eyeliner that Poppy’s wearing extends dramatically almost to her temples.

‘Possibly, no eyeliner, if you wouldn’t mind?’

‘I’ll keep it all very subtle.’ Poppy smiles wryly. ‘I do know you!’

I agree to let her get on with her ministrations.

Dipping in and out of her little bag to retrieve tubes and palettes of shimmery creams and powders, Poppy blends, dabs, brushes and sets my face. She finishes applying a second coat of black mascara. ‘Your eyes are especially lovely today,’ she tells me.

‘Are they, by any chance, violet?’ I enquire, perking up a bit.

‘Um…’ Poppy inspects closely. ‘No. Blue. Super-duper shiny blue.’

The upside of tears, presumably.

I sit quietly on the bin lid.

With her fingers, Poppy loosens my hair from the stronghold of Brendan’s spray. When I ask her to check, I’m relieved she can’t see any more grey strands.

Stepping back, Poppy gives me a good once-over before she proclaims boldly of her handiwork, ‘You look stunning.’ With remarkable vigour for a girl so slight, she heaves me up from the top of the bin and plonks me in front of the mirror. ‘Look.’

By the glitter over Poppy’s face, I’m afraid to look.

When I brave my reflection, it’s a pleasant surprise.