Before I decided to become a conspiracist, life was pandemonium. Everything had got so out of control. Terror. Democracy. Trump’s hair. My hair. I was a rudderless ship. Now I am a quantum cruise liner with four swimming pools and a set menu. Conspiracy theories provide an answer for everything. It is a relief to have an explanation for the chaos. Now — when things go wrong and I can’t find the car — I know who to blame; the Illuminati are hazing their pledges again and they keep moving the car on a dare.

The Illuminati — a society so secret everyone has heard of them. They are mischief. They burn my toast when I’ve had too many glasses of wine, and put unexpected items in my bagging area at the supermarket checkout. They are why my phone battery is never greater than 19 per cent. Why I push doors that say pull. Why — when I politely say “We should definitely meet up soon” — that person disappears from my life forever. The Illuminati tricked me into mistaking Jeremy Irons for an old family friend then jumping out of a phone booth to embrace him. The Illuminati — and the Illuminati alone — are the reason Sex and the City 2 showed up on our iTunes bill.