A gnawing began in my chest. A biting, vicious little pain I try to push down. ‘You’re a serial killer who has just hacked a woman to pieces and stuck her head on a large singing Santa, on the same day you’ve given birth and abandoned your baby at the hospital. You’re all alone having fled the UK with leaking nipples, an aching vajoodle and police hot on your arse who will throw the key away if they catch you. How do you think I was feeling?’

Monday, 31 December 2018 – at sea – one day to Madeira

1. Hen parties on cruise ships
2. Stag parties on cruise ships
3. Old people on cruise ships who take their sweet time to get around cos they know they’ve only got the buffet and the grave to get to now
4. Other people on cruise ships, including the captain whose boring updates keep cutting into my naps
5. My sister, Seren

As it turned out, I’m not a great traveller.

The baby blues kicked in the moment the ship left Southampton. And those fuckers kick hard, lemme tell you. I became a smelly, sobbing zombie who stayed in her cabin for the most part, eating junk, bleeding from my loosy goosey and watching re-reruns of Friends – the older episodes before Phoebe’s wig, Chandler’s weight fluctuations and Rachel’s constant nipples.

I was all at sea, emotionally, physically, literally. From the time I boarded the ship on 28 December to my port of sanctuary, I had four days. Four days to wait it out. Four days to stay as invisible as possible. Four days to bide my time and pray the British police force was as slow and inept as I’d always hoped they would be.

My cabin became my own sort of womb – all-encompassing. Safe. Cool and calming, absorbed from most noise, save tannoy announcements, the low hum of the distant engines and the occasional smattering of Mediterranean rain on my sloping window. I was on Deck 9, Room 510 at the front or the ‘forward’ and my stateroom overlooked the helipad, underneath the radar.

Just the way I liked it.

But it was purgatory with a travel kettle and tiny soaps. I told the room steward – Gabriel with the ridiculous biceps and chemical-toilet-blue eyes – that I had sea-sickness which explained why I wasn’t joining in with the New Year’s fireworks up on deck. The only thing that could tempt me outside was a visit to the on-board pharmacy for more king-sized panty-liners to mop up my endless womb leakings. I had nobody to talk to, save Richard E. Grunt and The Man in the Moon, but they never talked back. It’s not like Alexa – you can’t ask a question and get an instant answer. After a while, I stopped trying.