My mother looks at him, then laughs, almost sheepishly. ‘Of course. Let’s have a relaxing drink – then we can talk about Alex’s treatment plan over dinner.’

I’m about to protest that her proposal doesn’t just fail to meet the definition of a night off, it’s completely inappropriate and intrusive, when Jasmine reappears at our table with our drinks.

‘Here we are.’ She plonks them down in front of us theatrically and beams at us like an overenthusiastic streetlight. ‘Your starters won’t be long. Oh, and Alex, you must tell me if any of your dietary requirements have changed following your diagnosis.’

I’m left telling her disappearing backside that a diagnosis of MS most definitely doesn’t mean a change to the menu for our big day. As well as wondering how the hell I’m going to get through this evening on soft drinks.

‘How is the food?’ Jasmine has skirted across the oval-shaped restaurant to our table like a heat-seeking missile. ‘I do hope it is meeting your expectations – and more.’

‘It’s wonderful.’ My mother doesn’t look up from devouring her cuit rosé saddle of lamb with redcurrant and rosemary jus. ‘The dauphinoise potatoes are to die for.’

‘Super.’ Jasmine claps her hands in delight. ‘I am so pleased you are enjoying it. And the beef?’

Feeling her eyes on me, I rush to swallow my half-chewed mouthful so I can answer. I glug at my mineral water to help it along, but this causes me to choke and I start coughing and spluttering in an undignified way.

‘Oh, my word.’ Jasmine looks shocked.

I wave my hand to signal I’m fine, but Dom overreacts and slaps me on the back vigorously, making things worse.

‘Stop. Stop!’ I splutter as soon as I have enough breath to do so. ‘I just need a moment.’

All eyes round the table are on me as I compose myself.

‘The beef is really good too,’ I eventually manage to tell Jasmine.

Instead of her usual over-the-top response, Jasmine just nods and smiles sympathetically, then excuses herself. Confused by this, I look round at my table companions and notice they’re sat stock still.

‘What’s with the mannequin challenge, people?’ I raise an enquiring eyebrow. ‘Should I join in?’

My attempt at humour is returned with awkward expressions and an equally awkward silence.

‘Alex, dear,’ says my mum. ‘I think we all just got a bit of a shock there.’

‘Because I choked?’ I laugh in disbelief. ‘I’m fine. Hardly a butt-clenching moment.’

My mother flinches at my use of language. ‘It wasn’t because you choked. It was why you choked. You do realise that MS can cause issues with swallowing.’

This statement flattens me like a ten-ton truck. That’s what this is about? I take in the screamingly uncomfortable body language of John and Dom. They’re all thinking the same thing. Is this how it’s going to be? Now I have a ‘disability’, perfectly plausible explanations like ‘I didn’t chew my meat properly’ are no longer viable? No, I can’t allow this.