Dee is 33 years old, with a lilting Welsh accent and a London flat so small you can see the toilet from the bed.
When we first meet her, she’s performing a drunken striptease for a tall, mediocre man who will become her sort-of boyfriend.
The flat is in a shambles – much, as we learn almost immediately, like its inhabitant.
There are clothes, half-empty wine bottles and discarded sweet wrappers strewn everywhere.
It’s a veritable metaphor for her existence right now – messy, uncertain, claustrophobic – which is precisely what everyone who visits her notices.
She has several regular visitors to this 6m x 6m cube she calls home, all of whom try to intervene, try to change, try to tidy Dee up.
But she’s not having it: this is her life, this is her home, this is who she is.
This might be chaos, but it’s her chaos and anyone who objects will find the front door stage right.
Dee is the shambolic protagonist of the new play Touch, written and directed by Vicky Jones and just opened at Soho Theatre.
Jones is best friends and creative partner to Phoebe Waller-Bridge and together they brought us the irresistibly gritty Fleabag.
Just like Fleabag, which started as a one-woman theatre show and ended up an offensively successful sitcom on BBC3 and Amazon, Touch will probably end up on television.
It’s so good, it seems almost criminal to keep it just for audiences who can get a ticket and make it to central London.
No, this is the sort of story that needs to reach as many people as possible – it is filthy and fabulous and wickedly clever.
The sort of story that asks: can you still be a feminist if you enjoy a good spanking?
The sort of story that asks: how can we possibly know who we want to be with if we don’t know who we are?
Dee is part of a new trend: the new 30-something heroine.
She is, by her own admission, a hot mess. She is wild and anarchic, but profoundly endearing and extremely likable.
She is, in many ways, exactly what society fears most: a fully grown woman with no real intention of “settling down” and succumbing to the expectations put upon her by parents/lovers/friends/herself.
And she’s just one in a glorious new spate of female characters like this.
Vicky Jones is a particularly gifted at writing this type of character, and you get the distinct impression she’s writing straight from life.
Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s character in Fleabag, known only to us as ‘Fleabag’, is similar in her shameless messiness.
Like Dee, Fleabag is professionally uninspired, romantically unfulfilled and generally a bit disoriented by adulthood.
They are both lost and out of control of their own lives, and yet there is this strong sense with both of them that they own their identities and will not transform for any men who wanders into their lives.
They are distinctly feminist characters; no matter that their own feminism is sometimes complicated and guilty, like all of ours.
How wonderful to see real 30-something women appear in pop culture. What a relief and a joy to recognise ourselves and our girlfriends in these raw, hilarious new heroines.
These characters are genuinely revolutionary in their unashamed sexuality, their chaotic approach to life and their general mistrust of social convention.
They are spectacularly, endearingly, irresistibly messy.
How often, truly, have we seen women so complex and flawed in plays and TV shows?
How rare and how special is it, to see them now?
This is a new era of Bridget Joneses; ones without neat, heterosexual, happy endings.
For so long, the plays, books and TV shows we consume have pushed the female existence into a narrative about marriage, babies and romantic love.
And that’s fine, there will always be a place for that sort of clean, pleasing plot.
But now, we are starting to get stories about a more realistic, honest, varied womanhood: stories of ambition, mediocrity, self-awareness, identity, sex, friendship and mortality.
It’s because we are finally making room for women to create content about women they actually know.
We are finally making and celebrating female characters written by women, based on their own experiences and their girlfriends.
The new Netflix show GLOW is another example of this much-needed trend.
It’s a raw comedy about an all-female wrestling show in the 80s, made up mostly of out-of-work actors and one soap opera diva with a baby and a vengeance.
The usual clean-cut, one-dimensional female characters we are so used to getting are nowhere to be seen.
Instead, we get a whole ensemble of messy, nuanced characters who deal with infidelity, abortion, betrayal, friendship breakdown, bigotry and professional failure. The men are peripheral to all of this and we no longer rely on them to drive the plot or define the female characters.
This week, journalist Lucy Vine’s debut novel, Hot Mess, comes out.
It promises to bring us yet another fabulously uncouth heroine: Ellie Knight, a single woman who chooses Netflix and pizza over human contact and can’t quite ‘get her s*** together’ in a conventional sense.
She, like Dee in Touch, Fleabag in Fleabag and the girls of Glow, has been written by a smart, candid woman who knows what it’s like to live a life in disarray.
That’s what we have needed for so long: the real story of real women living real lives.
Not retouched, glossy lives with perfect endings; raw, chaotic lives lead by women still trying to work out who they are.
It’s so important for those stories to be told and such a relief to see that they are.
All hail, the era of the Hot Mess. Welcome, the new thirtysomething heroine: a woman after my own heart.
May we see many more incarnations of our real-life girlfriends in pop culture. It’s their time.