‘Idiot American dri-ver …’ She’s getting louder and louder. ‘Idiot American driiiiii-ver …’

Could I pretend it’s a quaint old British nursery rhyme?

No.

But I can’t sit here all day, either. Other mothers with small children are getting out of their massive SUVs, all along the street. And we were supposed to arrive early today.

‘Minnie, while we’re walking to pre-school, you can have a biscuit!’ I say, raising my voice. ‘But we have to be very, very quiet, like mice. No singing,’ I add for emphasis.

Minnie stops singing and eyes me suspiciously. ‘Biscuit?’

Result. Phew.

(And OK, I know it’s bad to bribe your children, so I’ll just feed her some extra green beans later, which will cancel it out.)

Hastily I jump out of the car and unstrap her. I hand her a chocolate-chip cookie from my emergency stash and we start walking along the pavement.

I mean, sidewalk. I must get used to that.

As we near the pre-school, I’m looking all around for paparazzi, but I can’t see any. But then, they’re probably all hiding in bushes. There are a few mothers leading small children in through the gates, and I subtly scan their faces as we walk in with them.

Hmm. I don’t think any of them are celebs, although they’re all toned and tanned with shiny hair. Most of them are in workout gear, and I make a mental note to wear that tomorrow. I so want to fit in. I want Minnie to fit in, and for both of us to make lots of friends.

‘Rebecca!’

Erica is greeting us and I smile in relief to see a familiar face. Erica is about fifty, with straight red hair and very colourful clothes, like a character from a children’s film. She’s leader of the Toddler Program and has already sent me lots of emails about Transition and Separation, and the Joy of Learning and Self-Discovery, which I think means dressing up, only I don’t quite dare ask.

‘Welcome to your first day at Little Leaf, Minnie!’ she adds, and escorts us into the Toddlers’ Learning Center, which is basically a room full of toys like any playgroup in England, only here they call them ‘developmental aids’. ‘Did you manage to park all right?’ she adds, as she hangs Minnie’s water bottle on her peg. ‘I know some folks have had issues this morning.’

‘Oh, we were fine, thanks,’ I say. ‘No problems.’

‘Where’s the brake?’ says Minnie suddenly, and beams at Erica. ‘Where’s the bloody brake in this bloody stupid car?’

My face flushes bright red.

‘Minnie!’ I say sharply. ‘Stop that! Where on earth did you— Gosh, I’ve got no idea—’

‘Idiot American dri-vers,’ Minnie starts singing to ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ again. ‘Idiot American dri-vers …’

‘Minnie!’ I practically yell. ‘Stop! No singing!’

I want to die. I can see Erica hiding a smile, and a couple of assistants looking over. Great.

‘Minnie’s obviously a very receptive child,’ says Erica politely.

Yes. Far too bloody receptive. I am never saying anything in front of Minnie, ever again.