‘Take four things,’ I tell her. ‘If you’re good, you can have it all.’

We then head over to the hosiery department where I pick up six pairs of eighty-denier black tights, the ones that apparently regulate my temperature, and a few bras that look about the right size. In the dressing room I leave Bonnie on the other side of a curtain eating a Rocky Road bar so I can try them on. But as soon as I shut the curtain, she goes apeshit.

‘Mummy, Mummy!’ she screams, drawing the attention of all the old women trying on bras. About four grey hairdos poke out of changing rooms to witness the child screaming in distress.

‘Bonnie, stop it,’ I say firmly. ‘I’ll be twenty seconds.’ I shut the curtain quickly, and she screams again. I have no idea why she suddenly has separation anxiety; usually she kicks me until I leave her alone.

‘Mummy! Mummy, no!’

I tear open the curtain.

‘Bonnie, please pack it in. I need to try these on.’

I hear a ‘tut’ from the cubicle next door. A little old lady pokes her head out and looks at Bonnie sympathetically.

‘Poor girl, she’s frightened,’ she says, in that annoying way that old people do. They were parents to toddlers so long ago that they have forgotten how awful it is. They remember the sweet bits, the cuddles, the playfulness, the stories. Mother Nature has rid their memories of the turbulent mood swings, violent meltdowns, sleepless nights and their own stress-induced outbursts. Of course that is what happens – if all adults and old people were like me then we would horrify younger generations into never reproducing. It is imperative that humans forget the turmoil of birth and parenting small children for the evolution of the human race, but dearie me, when you come face to face with it in a Marks and Spencer’s changing room, it’s hard to accept it as natural.

‘She’s not frightened, she’s being silly.’

‘Ahhhh, give her a cuddle,’ says another of the set-and-perm brigade.

‘She doesn’t need a cuddle,’ I say, whipping the curtain shut again. I just need to try on some bras, then we can leave.

‘Oh dear, is your mummy very angry?’ one of them asks, seriously testing my tolerance levels.

‘MUMMY. MUMMY,’ Bonnie screams. What the hell is she playing at? She never does this.

‘Bonnie, wait,’ I say, sternly. She has to be patient. And I peep my head through the gap so she can see me whilst I try to blindly to put on a bra on the other side of the curtain.

‘Ahhhh, poor baby,’ the first old lady says, bending down to Bonnie. She is only wearing a bra. It’s weird and creepy and Bonnie doesn’t like it any more than I do. I rip a bra off its hanger. I just need to try them on.