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Annette, Harriet and I are busy letting loose the grandmothers within us and fixing the partied-to-shreds dresses in our arms.

But Octavia is huffing and puffing and flapping her right wrist. She stabs a sewing needle back into her pin cushion. "It's no good," she moans. "I can't sew with my RSSI."

Harriet and I raise our eyebrows in mutual confusion.

"I mean my repetitive sex strain injury," she sighs, spelling it out for us, and I almost gulp down a pin with laughter.

"Last night Robert was feeling lazy, so I had to do all the work for him," she explains. "My wrist paid for it quite a bit."

"God, you're dedicated," I say.

"Or subservient!" says Annette.

"Or destined for arthritis," says Harriet. "I'll do your sewing, you rest."

Octavia slinks off to my sofa and stretches along it, sulkily nursing her weary hand and wrist.

Next on the agenda is deciding whether to see The Artist or Shame at the cinema this weekend.

I vote for The Artist. I've heard it has a tap-dancing scene and I'm hoping for something Busby Berkeley-style.

Speaking of which, it's time to show the girls the design for the new Berkeley-inspired burlesque prop I'm having made.

I present it to the others with a big grin. I've been saving up for years for a huge stage prop and this is straight out of Berkeley's Fashions of 1934, which has a scene with beautiful women hanging from giant ornate harps.

"I'll be strapped to the front while a maestro plucks the strings and I strip off to reveal my gold-painted body," I say.

My friends hum their approval, still debating which film to see and only half paying attention.

I worry that I'm entertaining myself more than anyone else with my harp idea.

"At least you still have a future in burlesque," whines Octavia, bringing the focus back to herself. "How will I be able to perform with my hand like this?" She makes a claw with her hand and shakes it at us. "Just iron it out flat," Annette pipes up from the ironing board, and puffs some steam in Octavia's direction.