I can sense her frustration already, being strapped to Oscar in that rocking chair all day.

‘It’s crazy how quickly people expect new mums to “snap back” or “get back to business as usual”,’ I say.

‘God … I know. You’re telling me. I’m feeling the pressure already, honestly. My boss emailed me a congratulations, but I can tell he has loads of stuff he wants to ask me about,’ Cec says, frowning.

‘I remember when Julie, the fashion editor at .dot, came back to work after maternity leave, people just said, “Welcome back! Congrats Julie!”, gave her a bottle of wine, and then shoved her towards a new desk and computer login and just expected her to get back to it like nothing had happened.’

‘Hahaha. Yup.’

‘It was like the whole office was totally ignoring the fact that she had just pushed something out of her body, and that her whole life had changed for ever. We were welcoming back a whole new Julie with a new set of challenges, but no one ever really said anything.’

I wondered what the birth had been like for poor old Julie. Birth stories had become a bit of a fascination for me. And every single one put me off more. The gory realities of it all! I noticed, from all the birth stories I’d heard over the years, that yes, they are all entirely different, but also there is always a moment where the mother says, ‘I’m probably not meant to say this …’ Like they are breaking some sort of moral maternal code by feeling a certain way: ‘I’m probably not meant to say this but, I wish I could give the baby back, ha ha ha!’

‘So anyway, how is work, Ol?’ Cec asks, stroking little Oscar’s cheek in his Moses basket.

‘Really good thank you! Writing some interesting articles, got some travelling coming up. No complaints really.’ Obviously I don’t tell Cec that I’ve been mining online ‘mum forums’ for scary stories for my ‘Millennials & Motherhood’ article. One woman had such bad postnatal depression that her husband had to hide all the kitchen knives; another said her husband popped out to get some milk and, by the time he came home, she had practically delivered her own baby; another said the doctors held her organs while they did a C-section. It makes me shudder to think about. It all sounds so barbaric.

I get the sense that Cec might have stuff she needs to do before Chris comes home from work, so I start to say my goodbyes and we have a big long hug.

‘You’ve got this, Cec, and we’re here whenever you need us – OK?’

‘I know you are, Ol. Thank you.’

I sit on the Tube home, feeling exhausted from just watching Cecily look after OAP. It reminded me of school, when I was given an egg to look after for a month. Mine was called Eggy. It was supposed to teach us how to look after things. Our classroom was quite unruly, and we always forgot to water the classroom plants or feed the pet hamster. The challenge was to not break the egg and return it at the end of the month, when we’d be asked to give a presentation on the most challenging bits. I drew a smiley face on mine and dropped and smashed it on day two. Sorry, Eggy.