Boys, boys, boys. Boys will be boys. At least that is true of the boys I know, or have known in the last ten years. There are the boys I see every day. I count them on the fingers of one hand: my little finger for Donal, the porter, who is a gross, Teddy Boy kind of hot; ring finger for Timmy, the cleaner, bless his sweet, romantic soul, his perfectly chiselled, curly beard; slimy Mr Hancock, who would love to be added to my list of boys, though of course, he doesn’t quite cut it. Far too old. Index finger for Neil and Neil and Neil. Although he was never a boy when I was a girl, always a little older, knowing more, pointing me in the right direction.

But I have seen the photographs of him as a boy and certainly I have witnessed the tantrums.

And who for the thumb?

Mrs O’Toole doesn’t have a problem with boys: she likes the night porters. What she dislikes is when the pictures of her family are moved when we clean her room. Her photographs are her greatest pride. Mrs O’Toole’s family is genetically atypical. At the back of the display, there are three larger frames with photos of her daughters; in front of them, six smaller frames with pictures of her granddaughters, and up on the wall, updated printouts of her baby great-granddaughter. A private, all-female pantheon. Her three daughters gave birth to couplets of perfect girls, and all the faces are perfectly balanced, stupefying multiples of sparkling brown eyes.

‘Leave my angels alone.’ She taps my wrist when I move the photographs to dust them. ‘Look at them. Aren’t they beautiful? We just don’t know how to make them in my family, do we?’

She means boys. Boys aren’t a problem in Mrs O’Toole’s family. There just aren’t any. And her girls are beautiful. She insists I bring over each of the photographs so she can kiss them on their etched lips, before I replace the frames on her dresser.

Lunchtime: the Lolitas roll Alanna into the Goldfish Bowl on an office chair. They have decorated her head with a garland of crimpled blue roll and it is my understanding this represents a crown, perhaps a halo? She looks even younger today. She looks like a child bride.

‘God save our gracious Queen

Long live our noble Queen,’ they sing.

A crown, then.

‘How’s the prep going?’ Alanna is smiling, a little embarrassed. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

The Lolitas are standing behind her. Alanna rolls her eyes. I feel like laughing.

The Lolitas have started singing again.

‘Send her victorious

Happy and glorious

Long to reign over us

God save the Queen.’

‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ I say, pointing my thumb to my chest. ‘I’ve got this.’

Alanna smiles. Looks happy.