There’s a short break, during which everyone gathers in clusters to admit that they don’t have a clue what’s going on. Then off we go again, with the same red-faced man rabbiting on (ha-ha!) saying ‘wherein’ and ‘therein’ a lot, which is causing my last vestiges of oestrogen to dwindle away.

Other things are happening too. By the time he pauses for a sip of water, I fear that any remaining elastin has evaporated from my skin. I can literally sense my face dehydrating and suspect I’ll leave this room entirely desiccated. And now, dear God, something else seems to be happening – not to my face but … down there. While I’m not one of those people who has to double-check everything before they leave the house, I’m pretty sure my vagina was perfectly fine a few hours ago. However, at some point during this man’s indecipherable babblings, things seem to have taken a turn for the worse. Withering is the only word for it. Of course I can’t see it right now, and I wouldn’t dream of investigating it in present company – but I can sense it happening, curling up at the edges like those cheese savoury sandwiches nobody seems to want. Apart from the fact that it’s not garnished with cress or served on a stainless-steel platter, my vagina is virtually indistinguishable from the unwanted buffet spread.

Naturally, it’s now impossible to focus on taking the minutes at all. I’ll have to cobble them together later and somehow fill in the gaps; at the moment, I’m focused on trying to reassure myself that it’s okay, no need to panic. A few months ago, before I found out about Andy’s affair, I was a rampant sex addict on constant heat. Now I never even think about it. So maybe this is just nature’s way of streamlining processes; a biological decluttering, if you like. If your vagina doesn’t ‘spark joy’ then it makes sense for it to retreat quietly into a dormant state.

I clear my throat and push my hair away from my hot face. The meeting is finally over. As I gather up my notes and hurriedly make my way towards the exit, Rose calls after me. ‘Viv? Just a minute …’

‘Yes?’ I turn and smile as serenely as I can muster.

She nods towards the buffet. ‘Those sandwiches have hardly been touched and you seemed too preoccupied to eat anything. Want to take some upstairs for later?’

‘Oh, I had something earlier, thanks,’ I say with another wide smile, and zoom out of the room.

Friday, July 26