‘It is bad? You think you can walk? I can give you a piggy-back if you like.’

Thankfully, this kind-but-ridiculous suggestion has the effect of distracting me from my pain and my wounded pride.

‘That won’t be necessary.’ I laugh weakly. ‘I’m OK. Plus, I don’t think we’re quite there yet, do you?’

‘Didn’t know there were qualifying criteria for that. Seriously, Alex. I know people fall about laughing because of my incredible sense of humour, but I think you took it too far.’

‘Not sure that’s so helpful right now, Dhruv.’ Emmanuel swoops in from behind him. ‘Alex, are you really all right?’

‘I’m fine,’ I assure her. ‘Really. It was one of those falls where it’s far more painful in the moment.’

Helped up by Dhruv and Emmanuel, I dust myself down and spot Danielle standing with Felix and Aadesh. To say she is enjoying my unfortunate accident would be an understatement. Thankfully, the guys are not wearing similar expressions; they look as concerned as Dhruv and Emmanuel, but they’ve clearly decided I’m in good hands.

‘Can you walk all right?’ Emmanuel asks.

I put weight on my leg and automatically flinch as my injured knee protests about the movement. But there’s no way this is ruining my evening – especially as I’m painfully aware of why it happened in the first place. This time there’s no disputing it’s an unfortunate by-product of my MS. Every now and again, I seem to misjudge things spatially or my body doesn’t quite do what I expect it to. Not badly, but enough to bump my leg on a cabinet or have a minor trip of some kind. Normally I can cover it up, and no one notices. Today’s unfortunate incident obviously doesn’t fall into that category; this time I’ve gone down in style and I’m going to have a hell of a bruise to remind me of it. It’s a stark and grim reminder of my illness. However, I’m determined to rescue whatever pride I can from this situation.

‘I’m fine. Honestly.’ I bend and straighten my knee a few times to loosen it up. ‘Now let’s go before they give our table away.’

I don’t need to tell Emmanuel twice. She instinctively trusts me to handle this situation myself. If this had happened back home, my mother-slash-sister-slash-colleagues would be carting me off home in a taxi faster than Usain Bolt could reach the hundred-metre finish line.

We amble across the remainder of the plaza into the cluster of food and drink establishments on the canal-side of Brindley Place. Reaching the team’s regular drinking haunt, I quickly forget my hot, throbbing knee and soak up the ‘gateway to the weekend’ celebrations.

An hour later, we’re sat at a picnic-style table in the outdoor section of a trendy hipster cocktail bar, bathing in the remnants of the warmth from the day. The sun has sneaked behind the roof of the restaurant opposite, leaving us in no doubt that we’ll be heading indoors before long.