When we reach the lingerie shop Bex turns to me. ‘Are you ready?’ she shrieks. I knew this would happen. In preparation, I was nil by mouth for forty-eight hours, with the exception of sweet tea. Yet as we cross the threshold I still feel my stomach turn inwards.

Apple pear rectangle hourglass inverted triangle. No one wants to kiss the spoilsport.

‘OK, how do we do this?’ I say, adopting a practical tone. The Lolitas look at me uncomprehendingly.

‘What do you mean “how do we do this”?’ they say.

They flick through the rows of bras at a mind-boggling speed.

‘Come on, Ruth,’ says Emmy. ‘Don’t you know your size?’

I hesitate. Bex nudges me to browse further along, and my arm darts out to pick up a cream bra with little cupcakes embroidered on it.

Do you wear a larger size on your top half than your bottom? Have wider shoulders than hips? Have a straight ribcage? Then you’re probably an inverted triangle. People will say you look like a swimmer on a good day or ‘androgynous’ on a bad day, which is intended to mean: you look like a man. You should wear straight lines, boat necks, muted colours. Why try?

When we’ve selected enough bras, the Lolitas push me towards the changing rooms, where we are handed butterfly tokens in different colours according to the number of items we are taking in with us. The tokens are different pinkish hues, which seems quite impractical because it’s hard to distinguish between them – as well as rather imprecise on a zoological level (pink butterflies are actually relatively rare). With a gentle shove, Emmy herds us down the corridor and it’s just as well: I shouldn’t try to entertain the concept of realism in a place like this. All the flat surfaces are reflective with glitter: I am blinded. I stumble to a changing room near the back and push through the thick velvet curtain. It is perfectly circular. I am standing in the middle of a minuscule opera theatre. Behind me, the crimson drape drops down to my feet, fringed with gold. The walls are papered with a continuous picture of theatre seats. A spotlight illuminates me from above. I hear the hiss of a hidden dispenser, vaporizing orange blossom fragrance. I lift my head. ‘The world is your stage’ is scrawled above my picture in the mirror. No pressure then.

No pressure to undress. I pull my sweater off, unbutton my shirt, slide my skirt down my legs. Take a deep breath. Cutis anserine is considered the medical name for goose bumps, but actually, it’s a near-exact Latin translation, meaning ‘goose skin’. An alternative medical term is ‘horripilation’. Which is a terrible word. I pinch the cold, moist skin of my underarm. I lift my arms and look at my dry elbows. I should moisturize more often. I never do.