‘Fire-eaters?’ echoes Mum, looking perturbed. ‘Becky, love …’

‘It’ll be George Michael all over again,’ Dad mutters darkly to Mum, and I give a sharp intake of breath. That is against our family code. No one was supposed to mention George Michael ever again. We even turn off ‘Careless Whisper’ whenever it comes on.

‘I heard that, thank you, Dad.’ I give him a furious stare. ‘And it won’t.’

The George Michael incident was so painful, I can barely bring myself to remember the details. So I won’t. Except that I was turning thirteen, and my whole class thought George Michael was entertaining at my birthday party. Because I’d said he was. And they all came with their autograph books and cameras …

I feel a bit queasy, just thinking about it.

Thirteen-year-old girls are mean.

And I had not made it up, like everyone said. I had not. I phoned the fan club and the man said he was sure George would have loved to be there and I kind of … misunderstood.

‘And do you remember the fairies, Graham?’ Mum suddenly claps a hand to her head. ‘All those sobbing, hysterical little girls.’

Why do parents have to remind you of things all the time? OK, so maybe I shouldn’t have told my schoolfriends that I had real fairies in my garden and they were coming to my fifth birthday party and everyone would get a wish. And then I shouldn’t have said the fairies had changed their minds because no one had given me a nice enough present.

But I was five. You do things when you’re five. It doesn’t mean you’re going to do them when you’re twenty-nine.

‘Anything else you want to bring up from my past?’ I can’t help sounding hurt.

‘Love.’ Mum puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I’m just saying … birthday parties haven’t been your strong point. Have they, now?’

‘Well, this one will be,’ I retort, but Mum still looks anxious.

‘Just don’t make too many promises, darling.’

‘Why don’t you take Luke out to dinner instead?’ suggests Dad. ‘The King’s Arms does a lovely set meal.’

OK, I officially give up on all my friends and family. The King’s Arms?

‘I don’t want a dreary old set meal in a pub! I want to throw Luke a party. And I’m going to, even if you think it’ll be a disaster!’

‘We don’t!’ says Mum hastily, shooting a glance at Dad. ‘That’s not what we were saying, and I’m sure we can all help—’

‘You don’t need to,’ I say haughtily. ‘I have all the help I need, thank you.’

And I sweep out of the kitchen before either of them can reply. Which I know is really immature and teenagery of me. But honestly. Parents are so … annoying.

And anyway, they’re all wrong, because hosting a surprise party is a doddle. Why don’t I do it more often? By that evening, I’ve got it all sorted. We’re having a marquee in Janice’s garden on 7 April. Janice and Martin are totally on board and sworn to utter secrecy. (So is the plumber who was fixing their tap and listening in to the whole conversation. He’s absolutely promised not to say a word.)

On the less good side, Mum’s even more hysterical than before. She’s heard some scare story on the radio about how Britain’s national debt is a big black hole and pensions are all going to collapse, and basically money won’t exist any more. Or something. So we’re having a family conference. Minnie’s in bed and a bottle of wine is open and we’re sitting round the table in the kitchen.

‘So,’ Dad begins, ‘clearly the world is in a bit of a … state.’

‘I’ve just looked in the cellar.’ Mum sounds a bit tremulous. ‘We’ve still got all that bottled water we bought for the Millennium bug. And eight boxes of canned food, and all the candles. We’d be all right for three months, I think, although what we’d do about little Minnie …’

‘Jane, we’re not under siege,’ says Dad a little testily. ‘Waitrose is still open, you know.’

‘You never know! We need to be prepared! It said in the Daily World—’

‘But there may be financial worries ahead,’ Dad interrupts, looking grave. ‘For all of us. So I suggest that we all look at ways that we can CB.’

There’s a gloomy silence round the table. None of us is very keen on CB. It’s Dad’s shorthand for Cut Back and it’s never any fun.

‘I know where all the money’s going,’ says Mum adamantly. ‘It’s on those luxury roasted nuts from Marks & Spencer you insist on buying, Graham. Do you know how much they cost? And you sit there in front of the TV, eating handfuls at a time …’