My expectations of Florence had been sizeable – Michelangelo’s David, the Palazza Vecchio, the Uffizi, the Duomo, the best pizza on earth, the best gelato in all Italy – and I’m pleased to say they were all met.

By somebody who isn’t me.

Because my experience of Florence was this – fucking tourists.

Not literally fucking tourists – just fucking tourists. Every fucking turn.

If you weren’t being pummelled and pushed out of the way by tourists over-eager to get their fifty-eighth Instagram shot of the Ponte Vecchio or a bench where some syphilitic pre-Raphaelite once got railed, you were being harassed by street hawkers thrusting selfie sticks and shit watercolours in your face. I say You, I of course meant Me.

The one highlight was a text from Dannielle Fairly. It said this:

Tenoch Espinoza, Hacienda Santuario, Camino Cabo Este, Rocas Calientes.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? I sent back, but again, nothing was clarified. It looked like I was going to a Spanish-speaking country at least. Bobby had mentioned South America, so that narrowed it down. I tried not to think about it until I got more info. Tried to lose myself in the priceless art all around me.

The statue of David was impressive – I’ll give Florence that. He was taller than I’d imagined and we were reliably informed by our guide that ‘in Michelangelo’s day, a small penis was thought a thing of great beauty.’

‘Yeah, in the days before they gave women an opinion,’ I heckled. Well, Rhiannon heckled. Hilary would never have said such a thing. It made me laugh though, even though nobody else did.

Actually, one person laughed – Jayde Prosser. She and I wandered around the Uffizi together, Ryan bringing up the rear with the double buggy.

‘Thanks for coming with us today,’ she said. ‘It means a lot.’

‘De nada,’ I said. ‘How you goin’ today?’

‘I’m good. Now that he’s stopped treading on eggshells around me and Ken and Glo aren’t with us. We needed a day without them.’ She looked behind us to check that Ryan wasn’t listening in.

I wanted to tell her about Ivy – that I knew how she felt, that she could confide in me, as a fellow mother. But I stopped myself. Because I wasn’t a mother. I’d given birth, yes, but I hadn’t stuck around for the hard part. I had no idea what Jayde was experiencing. Her baby was dead. I knew mine was still alive. I had hope. Jayde was hope-less.

And a strange sensation came over me – I wanted to hug her. I didn’t get it often, but I held my arms out and she took the hint and we hugged, in the middle of the gallery. We pulled away and I wiped her cheeks with the balls of my hands like Caro had done for me in Valencia. And I said: