I slipped some odd socks on Friday's feet – he didn't help matters by splaying his toes – then found his shoes, one of which was under the sofa and the other right on top of the bookcase – Melanie had been climbing on the furniture, after all. I found a brush and tidied his hair, trying desperately to get an annoying crusty bit that smelt suspiciously of baked beans to lie flat. It didn't and I gave up, then washed his face, which he didn't like one bit. I was eventually on my way out of the door when I saw myself in the mirror and dashed back upstairs. I plonked Friday on the bed, put on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt and tried to do something – anything – with my short hair.

'What do you think?' I asked Friday, who was now sitting on the dressing table staring at me.

'Aliquippa ex consequat.'

'I hope that means: "you look adorable, Mum".'

'Mollit anim est laborum.'

I pulled on my jacket, walked out of my room, came back to brush my teeth and fetch Friday's polar bear, then was out the door again, telling Mum that I might not be back that night.

My heart was still racing as I walked outside, ignoring the journalists, and popped Friday in the passenger seat of the Speedster, put down the hood – might as well arrive in style – and strapped him in. I inserted the key in the ignition and then—

'Don't drive, Mum.'

Friday spoke. I was speechless for a second, hand poised on the ignition.

'Friday?' I said. 'You're talking—?'

And then my heart grew cold. He was looking at me with the most serious look I had ever seen on a two-year-old before or since. And I knew the reason why. Cindy. It was the day of the second assassination attempt. In all the excitement I had completely forgotten. I slowly and very carefully took my hands off the key and left it where it was, trafficators blinking, oil and battery warning lights burning. I carefully unstrapped Friday, then, not wanting to open any of the doors, I climbed carefully out of the open top and took him with me. It was a close call.

'Thanks, baby, I owe you – but why did you wait until now to say anything?'

He didn't answer —just put his fingers in his mouth and sucked them innocently.

'Strong silent type, eh? Come on, wonder-boy, let's call SO-14.'

The police closed the road and the bomb squad arrived twenty minutes later, much to the excitement of the journalists and TV crews. They went live to the networks almost immediately, linking the bomb squad with my new job as the Mallets' manager, filling up any gaps in the story with speculation or, in one case, colourful invention.