That day it was four girls who looked like they’d stepped straight out of a rap video, taking selfies from every possible angle. Curious, I checked out #TGVParis-Brest on Instagram to see how they’d glorified themselves, and to see what attributes they’d unveiled to the grand twenty-first-century fairground of seduction. But there, amid those images of curvy booty and pouting, swollen lips ready for every sort of stimulation imaginable, somebody – without my realising – had taken a photo of me looking on, and posted it.

There I was, in my black mini dress with pockets, my bomber jacket, my legs fitted out with their orthoses and my little heeled ankle boots, lost in a cloud of rainbow-coloured parrots. The total casting error. Emily the Strange invited to the hos’ birthday party.

And to top it all off, I was pulling one of those faces . . .

I’ve got to say, I wasn’t feeling at the top of my game. I’d just been put on compulsory sick leave because I’d narrowly avoided being sliced in two, width-wise, by the doors of a metro train and, to make matters worse, I was on my way to the ultimate bore of a destination, namely my father’s eighty-fifth birthday.

And the trip was a long way from over: once I’d made it to Brest, I would still have an hour by bus and an hour and a half by boat over wild seas to go. And since I knew that as soon as I arrived I’d just be in the way, you can imagine my enthusiasm.