She is quite small for her age, but very strong. It takes a minute, but soon enough I have her in. I give her a box of raisins to distract her and somehow we manage to get out of the house.

When she finishes the raisins she throws the box onto the street and demands more. I don’t have any, so I ignore her and keep pushing. It’s a ten-minute walk to her nursery and I walk fast to burn off the toast and Marmite I had for breakfast. Bonnie gets more and more upset, eventually becoming physical. She launches herself backwards and forwards in the buggy, then from side to side too, trying to get herself free.

‘I want to walk,’ she yells between long, ear-splitting screams. It’s the same every morning.

‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ I say to a mother who looks at my child pitifully. ‘If I let her out we will never get there.’ She makes some stupid face that implies I am being cruel, then walks off. Her snotty little brat following in tow. The self-righteousness of parenting is what grates on me the most. I avoid other mums as much as I can.

‘She’s fine,’ I bark at someone else who thinks coming over and saying, ‘Ahhhhhh,’ and smiling at my crazy child is in some way the right thing to do. It is patronising and insincere. There is nothing to ‘Ahhhhhh’ about when a toddler is being a level ten.

‘Maybe she’s hungry,’ says an old lady waiting at a crossing next to us. I was doing OK until she weighed in.

‘Oh, you think maybe I should consider feeding my child?’ I ask. She doesn’t get my sarcasm.

‘Yes, the poor little thing is probably starving.’

‘Oh, well silly me. Forgetting to feed my child.’ I could stop there, but why would I do that? ‘There was me, listening to her delicate little screams, wondering what on earth could be the matter when all the while all I had to do was feed her. How could I have been so thick?’

The old woman looks at me with fear in her eyes. To be fair, I have gotten quite close to her face. I don’t like old ladies and the way they act like they’ve got all the answers.

‘Up yours,’ I say, crossing the road. It’s a retro phrase I use a lot. Firm, offensive but not sweary enough for people to ring an alarm. I find it very useful. I occasionally add a finger.

Lauren Pearce – Instagram post

@OfficialLP

The image is of Lauren in her kitchen holding a large glass filled with something green. She is wearing jeans and a tight pink shirt. She is fully made-up with perfectly highlighted blonde hair.

The caption reads: