‘Now look,’ they say. ‘Everyone knows how this works: champagne cocktails, with strawberries or cherries or raspberries, whatever, for the girly girls. It doesn’t really matter so long as it’s berries. Jungle face paint and camo for the tomboys.’ They giggle. ‘Come on! Don’t you know about this, Ruth? What type of girl do you think Alanna is, Ruth?’

They’ve started calling me by my name too, copying her. It grates.

I nod. Yes. A girly girl, I’m familiar with the notion of a girly girl. But a notion is one thing. It’s quite another to understand the inner workings of girliness. I never have. Which is why the Lolitas are supposed to be helping me. If anyone knows what a girl is, on an instinctive level, then it’s them. They are the experts. I go back to my spreadsheet and let them do their thing. They begin roaming the room, yapping ideas to one another from a distance. A mutual shriek marks a mutually exciting idea.

They reconvene at my office chair. They tell me about make-up sessions. Then about a trip to Ibiza that seems too costly. It has been tacitly established that I am in charge of the budget – an appropriate task that appropriately corners me in the role of the spoilsport. They suggest an Alice in Wonderland Mad Hatter’s Tea Party, a sleazy-sounding spa retreat and an Ann Summers get-together that seems too risqué for the range of ages and people involved. They bark suggestions at me until I can feel my throat beginning to close up and I have to fix my eyes on the screen as my vision blurs, and all I can see is a stifling sea of pink undertones, a bad feeling, a blown-out red nightmare ready to engulf our group, whatever we end up choosing.

Last night in my dream I was a strong swimmer, a member of an away delegation to a northern English beach, waiting to take part in some competitive outdoor swimming. I knew we were there for a marathon swim. It occurred to me that, despite being a semi-professional, I didn’t know what marathon swimming entailed. I was surprised to find out it was raced in lanes. A large portion of the coast was sectioned off by long stretches of white-and-red plastic floating dividers, marking a mandatory swimming course. A larger yellow buoy with a petite red flag on top signalled the start of the race, a few metres out into the water. The swimmers didn’t waste any time and waded into the sea. I began to swim after them, as we moved in a group towards the yellow buoy, the wobbling red stain. Because we were in the water, there was no way to mark a clear starting line, so there was no kick-off order: we all piled in at the mouth of the lane, and already I felt myself going under.