‘Sorry I can’t come to see you. I was drunk under the table by a Japanese hairdresser and her gay boss last night,’ was pretty much what I had to tell my mum before hanging up the phone to stumble back to the bathroom. ‘I feel really bad having to cancel,’ I said on the second call. It’s rather embarrassing having to let people down due to drinking too much alcohol in your 30s – let alone your own mother on Mothering Sunday. When you drank less than a hairdresser who had to work the following day, it’s even more pathetic. Fortunately my mum is very understanding. ‘Don’t feel worse than you are already,’ she replied. Our relationship in my teens was rather like Edina and Saffy’s from Ab Fab.

That wasn’t the worst part of the weekend. At the end of the previous night out I’d caught a cab back with the Swedish banker (I’d met him a couple of months previously at The Lonsdale) and his friend. Mine was the first stop in Notting Hill. I got out; the banker got out; I went to kiss him on the mouth; he went for my cheek.

‘He clearly didn’t fancy me,’ I told Kim when I finally got myself together for a 3pm brunch at Tiny Robot.
‘Maybe he had a cold sore coming,’ she ventured.
‘He just saw me coming.’
‘Maybe he was embarrassed to kiss you in front of his friend.’
‘His friend was still in the cab.’
Later I called Joanna to tell her the amusing story. ‘A lot of bankers are gay, you know,’ she said.
‘He’d mentioned an ex girlfriend.’
‘Maybe he’s bi-sexual.’
‘That’s even worse. It would mean he isn’t fussy,’ I laughed.

Liz was more direct. ‘That’s not good. Did he say he wanted to see you again?’ I was ready to go back to bed.