‘Ruby’s right. You should be having a nervous breakdown . . . except you’d only have time for that in your lunch hour. Oh, wait, I forgot, you don’t usually take a lunch hour, do you?’ Emerald said, mopping up carbonara sauce with a chunk of bread. ‘I’m amazed you don’t just sleep in your office pantry overnight.’

‘Put yourself first . . . Just this once,’ I persisted, pressing the cruise ticket into Amber’s hand. ‘Why not?’

‘Because the guilt would kill her,’ Emerald guessed, licking the last of the cream from her lips.

‘Oh, that’s so sensitive, Emerald, really,’ Amber snapped. ‘Talking about death at a time like—’

‘Look, if your offspring complain of neglect,’ I pushed on, ‘simply point out what you’ve given up for them – uninterrupted sleep, your privacy . . .’

‘Our pelvic floors,’ Emerald added, gloomily. ‘The ability to wear a bikini – we have nipples down to our knees because of those bloody kids!’

‘Speak for yourself, Emerald. I am perfectly pert, thanks very much.’

‘Perfectly anorexic, you mean.’ Emerald leant over and honked Amber’s left breast. ‘How much foam is in that frickin’ thing?’

Amber slapped her hand away. ‘Get off me! You only have big tits because you’re overweight.’

‘At least I don’t starve myself to fit into size six pants, which are giving you a bad case of camel-toe, by the way.’

‘These are perfectly tailored designer trousers, I’ll have you know. Some of us make an effort. I mean, really, a long skirt and trainers? Is that appropriate work wear?’ She pointed at Emerald’s attire.

‘There’s a gym on board, Emmy. Or we can just get in shape by dancing the night away. The disco diet!’ I enthused.

‘I’m in shape . . . I do at least twenty sit-ups every morning, hitting the snooze button on the iPhone so I’m too late to go power-walking with my health-nut husband.’

‘Look, if it meant protecting our kids, we mums would contract a slow, flesh-eating bacteria that resulted in all our limbs falling off. But, having coddled, caressed and kissed bumps better for decades, tethered to the stove by our apron strings, it’s time we took a break from nurturing. Don’t you agree?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Oh, Ruby – my heart goes out to you.’ Amber wrung her manicured hands. ‘And I’m sending bad vibes to Kev. Down with Kev! Death to Kev! But I can’t go. I’m sorry. The kids need me so much right now.’

I deflated faster than the British economy post-Brexit, then turned to my other sister.

‘What about you, Emerald? Running your own veterinary clinic, at the bossy beck and call of our overbearing mother, two demanding kids – you must feel like a gymnast trying to balance on a beam. Surely you need a break?’ I thrust the cruise ticket towards my oldest sister.