I’ll relish my Sunday roast, sitting alone, as other people’s brats run riot in the restaurant, or older children sit glued to their iPhones, wishing they could be anywhere else.

I never took to Big Jane, an enormous doll with tarantula eyelashes that my parents bought for a small fortune. I loathed her, and the only time she came out of her cupboard was when the church needed her to play baby Jesus in the nativity plays.

A supposedly romantic dinner in Paris turned sour when the man opposite said: ‘I think you’re the funniest, smartest and most interesting woman I’ve ever met – I just don’t fancy you.’ Talk about an Eiffel of dreams come crashing down.

I identified as a four-year-old and absolutely smashed it in the local primary school’s egg and spoon race.

Breasts were also a big problem. I had, and continue to have, problems understanding why girl dancers as young as four need breasts, but that was, and is, very much the norm. To this end, two mini aircraft hangars were fitted into each of our dresses, and we joined this army of breastless breasts marching, in unison, like some glorious, sequined, Himalayan range.