Page 41 of The Happiness Project

Beside the dress is a walnut parlour table with a silver tray containing sherry glasses, alongside an explanation that the dress would have been worn at social gatherings.

‘Although, if that’s the size of glass they drank from during their girls’ nights out, then maybe that explains things,’ Patty adds. ‘Compare that to a gin balloon.’

‘You couldn’t even fit an ice cube in that,’ I say. ‘They must have had the gin neat.’

We move through the timeline, past the impossibly small hips of the 1920s and the tiny bra-less bosoms of the 1960s, relieved to find a dress that we believe we could actually fit into.

‘Finally,’ says Patty, admiring the long, sequinned gown. ‘It’s a bit bling but at least it’s normal woman sized.’

‘Glad you think so — it’s mine,’ says a voice behind us.

We turn and our eyes are chest height to a person with impeccable eyebrows and cheekbones to die for.

‘Poppy O’Cherry, at your service,’ they say, holding out their hand as if they expect us to kiss it. I take it and give it a weak shake. ‘I donated that after winning Drag Dance UK.’

‘Sorry for calling it bling,’ I say. ‘It’s spectacular.’

‘Nothing wrong with a bit of bling,’ they reply before looking Patty up and down. ‘You’re the red dress lady, I’ve seen you on Insta.’

Patty curtsies. ‘And it’s also called Poppy, so this is quite the coincidence.’

‘Well, you are killing it,’ declares the human Poppy. ‘Get yourself in here — we need a selfie.’

They pull Patty into a cheek-to-cheek hug and, pouting, take a few photos. I check my watch and tell them that we have to head to the dance studio now.

They air-kiss and Poppy O’Cherry sashays away.

* * *

The studio is in a different part of the city away from the Victorian grandeur and surrounded by what would once have been squalor — the warehouses of yesteryear. Now they’re fashionable offices, shops and clubs, including Marianne’s dance school.

I’ve booked a waltz lesson for the Mercury Travel Club members and when we arrive, they’re all there waiting, including my mum and dad, who are done up to the nines.

‘You two look wonderful,’ I tell them, scanning them from head to toe.

‘I wouldn’t want to let the Strictly judges down by being shabby,’ says Mum. ‘I made your dad polish his shoes twice.’

He holds up a foot to show me and I congratulate him on a job well done.

‘You know the judges won’t be here,’ I say to Mum.

‘In spirit, they’re on every dance floor in the country.’

I can’t argue with that.

Marianne claps her hands to get our attention and shows us the steps to the waltz. I’m hoping that with my prior knowledge I’ll have a head start on this lot but as I look around the room, they seem rather more foot sure than I was. At least they’re all going in the same direction.

Felipe and Marianne are going from couple to couple, so my other hope — that I’d be paired with the dark, handsome instructor — is also dashed. I’m with Patty and she’s the lead. I scream as she throws me backwards into a tip and the whole room stops to look at us.

‘That step isn’t in it, is it?’ asks Mum.

‘Improvisation, Mrs S.’ Patty pulls me back into a tight hold.

The dance restarts and I ask Patty to stick to the rules as I’m the one who has to do this in Vienna. She does as she’s told, although she does count out loud the whole time.

‘Why don’t we all swap partners?’ suggests Marianne. ‘Patty, you dance with me.’

I’m delighted when Felipe approaches me and watch as Mum and Dad swap with another couple.

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