I know she’s not telling me the whole truth.

Saved by the bell, our Uber arrives outside the front door and we jump in. Magic FM is playing Spandau Ballet’s ‘Gold’. The Uber driver is wearing a shawl-necked grey sweater and has greyish stubble to match. He has one tiny hoop earring.

‘All right ladies? Good evenin’ to ya,’ he says.

‘Hi, thanks. We’re off to The Book Club bar, please.’

‘Yup, no probs. Twenty-minute drive it says on ’ere, all in all,’ he says, tapping at his GPS.

‘Cool, thanks,’ I reply.

There is a pause, and the driver keeps looking at us in his rear-view mirror enthusiastically, like he wants to chat. Bea is sending a reminder to Jeremy about the leftovers in the fridge and where to find the Calpol in case Amelia’s cough gets any worse. I open the latest email from Iris with our tickets attached. The driver then turns down Magic FM slightly and clears his throat.

‘Did you girls watch that Good Morning Britain this mornin’ with what’s-his-chops?’ he asks, face bobbing around trying to make eye contact in the rear-view mirror.

‘Er, no, what was the topic?’ I ask, looking at my phone.

‘Gender-fluid kids,’ he says.

‘Oh right,’ Bea says. We glance sideways at each other.

‘It’s properly ridiculous, isn’t it? Gender-fluid this, gender-binary this, non-binary that.’

We make a sort of neutral ‘mmmm’ noise.

He goes on: ‘You know, they had a seven-year-old boy on there. Said he was a girl! Ridiculous. He’s not a bloody girl! I wore pink dresses and all, when I was younger! My cousin Donald, he liked dolls! World’s gone mad. Just cos you are playing with girly toys doesn’t mean you should write down “gender fluid” on your school forms. Am I right?’ He starts laughing to himself, snorting through his nose.

We both know to just nod and smile. I want to challenge this idiot. But late at night, in a busy city, it probably isn’t worth it. It is aggravating having to hold your tongue in so many ways. You don’t want to run the risk of being chucked out of a taxi late at night, or getting verbally abused, or you know, murdered and chopped up into little pieces and put in someone’s freezer.

‘Honestly,’ he continues, ‘I think it’s dangerous. Making these young’uns think they know themselves and what they want at such an insignificant age. I wanted to be a vet at seven! And an astronaut. Doesn’t mean nothing. I mean, look at me now!’ He laughs.

‘Huh!’ I grunt.

‘Moral of the story is, you don’t know what you want at seven. And you definitely aren’t gender bloody fluid.’ He takes a sharp left down a small narrow street and Bea and I swerve to one side.

‘I wouldn’t mind if my kids wanted to put that on their form,’ Bea says. ‘I don’t think it’s that important as long as they feel they’re being heard, to be honest.’