My body felt weird that 1992 day. I’d had to get out of a taxi the night before, repelled by the smell of every passenger before me. My nipples felt like they were being sliced with razor blades when my bra touched them. I wanted to sleep and wear overalls.

Surely, surely, I was pregnant. A home test. One line. Devastation. And confusion. Why, then, was I suddenly craving McDonald’s chicken burgers when I’d never eaten one before? Why was I peeing every 10 minutes?

Being pregnant is stressful enough without incorrect claims.Credit: iStock

My doctor took blood. Rang by the end of the day: no baby this month. Come back next week, we’ll work out what’s going on.

At home, a boiling bath topped up for hours until the bottle of red was gone. I sobbed my face off. Called for more wine.

The next week, another blood test. I was pregnant. Had been all along. And until my son was born 7½ months later, I was awash not with excitement but guilt.

What damage had I done to my baby that night, flooding him with cheap wine when he was just a glimmer of life? Was it possible I’d literally boiled his tiny fresh heart........

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