When I wake up my first thought is for my mother. It’s very annoying to be programmed to care, when I would rather just forget about her entirely. I send her a message, just for my own peace of mind.

Good morning, Mum. Here is a picture of Bonnie from the park yesterday.

I attach a photo of Bonnie playing. My mother doesn’t reply but the message shows as ‘read’. She isn’t dead. I can now get on with my day.

Surprisingly, Bonnie doesn’t fight me as I get her into her buggy this morning. Getting dressed isn’t awful, breakfast doesn’t end up on the floor. She watches TV as I get ready and doesn’t scream the house down when I turn it off. I give her some raisins to eat on the way to her new nursery, and she says thank you. Which almost blows my brain right out of my head.

‘Where do you think the mouse is now?’ she asks me on the way.

‘Probably with his family,’ I say, confidently, yet shivering at the thought of a bunch of mice breaking back into my house.

‘Why are we going this way?’ Bonnie asks me, realising our route has changed.

‘You’re going to a new nursery today, how exciting,’ I say.

‘Why?’

I don’t give her an answer.

We arrive at the location, and a tatty door with an intercom. I ring the buzzer and the door clicks open. Almost immediately a strong smell hits me as we go inside.

‘Pooh! What is that?’ Bonnie shouts, pinching her nose in a cartoon fashion.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, covering mine too.

The smell is terrible, but the dirt on the floor is worse. This place is not clean, it feels depressing and the few children, all much younger than Bonnie, look like zombies with streams of green snot hanging from their noses. A young woman comes over to us, her clothes covered in paint. Her hair is greasy. I want to ask her if she has ever even heard of dry shampoo. I did notice there was no Ofsted rating on their website but assumed it was because it was newly opened. Nothing here looks new.

‘Hello, I’m Maria. Are you Ruby and Bonnie then?’ she asks me.

‘Yes …’ I reply. ‘What is that smell?’

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘We have a blocked toilet. Should have it fixed today, they kept cancelling. But they said they’d come out today so that’s good.’

‘How long has it smelt like this?’ I ask.

‘Only three days. Hello, you must be Bonnie?’

Bonnie turns her head to the side, suddenly very shy. Or nervous. Or repulsed.

‘Say hello, Bonnie,’ I say. She doesn’t. I undo her straps and try to get her out but she goes stiff as a board.

‘Come on now Bonnie,’ I say gently. ‘Do you want to play with the other children?’