Marie, the first guest, has been instructed to lay the table. She’s banished from the kitchen due to last year’s unfortunate experiment with a naked flame. Virginia wafts in minutes later, apologising for her failure to bring the wine; she’s been daydreaming, trying to interpret Rorschach clouds (they all look like the cresting water to her).

The Brontë sisters are squabbling as they ring the doorbell of the bright blue house. They’ve each made a pasta dish and want Frida to judge which one’s the best. (Emily always over seasons with spices and salt, Charlotte has a surprise ingredient and Anne sometimes undercooks).

Maya says grace in her mellifluous voice.

Germaine gets drunk after three glasses and starts telling dirty jokes about eunuchs and pretty young boys. Frida tries not to laugh.

Sylvia is the last to arrive. She looks wan and pale (daddy issues and a feckless lover). Frida raises her ferocious eyebrows in response.

After dinner she brings out a pinata shaped like a bloated man and each of the guests takes a turn to whack the ego out of it.

The lollies that fall from its broken body taste so satisfying.