It hits you while you’re in the cubicle, bent holding him, back aching, over the too-tall toilet because he refuses to sit down, insists that boys wee standing up. You have left the most helpless, precious thing you own with a complete and utter stranger.

No, you tell yourself. No. She has children too. She said so. And then you think: You don’t even know the first thing about her. Of course you’d say you have kids. That’s the first thing you’d say. And why was she so keen to strike up conversation with an obviously harassed and beleaguered new mum, so quick to insist that you leave her with the buggy?

‘Hurry up,’ you snarl at your son. You couldn’t even say what the woman looked like now. Brownish hair, and glasses – did she have glasses? Fifty, sixty? Wearing something … dark? You yank up your son’s pants and trousers, bundle him out through the cubicle door and past the sinks.

‘But, Mummy!’ He is outraged. ‘I hasn’t washed my hands. You has to wash your hands. You has to!’ 5

‘Not this time,’ you snap, ‘come on,’ and you haul the protesting mass of him through the door.

Your heart, slamming into your chest.

The buggy is still there.

For a moment, your limbs turn to jelly. You clutch your toddler’s hand and steady yourself on the metal edge of someone else’s table. The buggy is still there. The beating wing of some great, ancient, thwarted creature brushes past and through you. Sick with relief, you kneel and hug your son.

‘Mummy’s sorry, sweetheart. Mummy didn’t mean to be cross.’

He blinks at you, unsure, uneasy, this little barometer of your every mood and thought, disturbed and confused by the sudden rush of conflicting pressures.

‘I am very cross,’ he says. ‘I am crosser than you. You has to wash your hands.’ His face like thunder, little chin still jutting out in the ominous way that precedes a meltdown.

‘I know,’ you say, ‘I know, pet, Mummy’s sorry, Mummy’s very sorry. Let’s get your baby sister and then would you like a cookie? Or a milkshake? Which would you rather, a milkshake or a cookie?’

He glares, suspicious.

‘A milkshake and a cookie,’ he says.

‘Ok,’ you say, ‘a milkshake and a cookie.’

‘A stawby milkshake,’ he says, sensing the upper hand, and you’re suddenly overcome with love for him, this two-foot tyrant who can’t yet pronounce ‘strawberry’.

‘A strawberry milkshake, of course. Come on.’ 6

You weave back through the tables to thank the woman. You can’t see her, at first, in the early-lunchtime throng, a queue for the counter that snakes past your table. Excuse me. Excuse me, please. Your son chiming in: Beep-beep!