Bertie took a spoonful of muesli. He also wished that he did not have to play so much with Tofu, but what were the alternatives? Olive? She was even worse, and Hiawatha was unpredictable and somewhat moody, and there was the problem of his socks. What Bertie needed was a good friend, somebody who thought the same way as he did, and who was neither selfish, like Tofu, nor bossy, like Olive. But it seemed that there was nobody like that, and so he had to make do with what he had.

The disruption to the morning routine had been brought about by Ulysses, and by Irene’s need to get Ulysses ready to accompany them on the bus to school. This was not an impossible task, of course, but it was a time-consuming one, as was any chore associated with a one-year-old baby. And now matters were complicated even further by the fact that Ulysses was developing a rather worrying pattern of behaviour that manifested itself with particular vigour in the early mornings.

The behaviour in question had first been noticed by Irene a few weeks earlier, when Ulysses had started to scream on being picked up out of his cot in the morning. As she bent down over the cot, Ulysses had opened his eyes, focused on his mother’s face, and then uttered a startling cry of distress. At first she had taken this for hunger, and had hurried to give him his small yellow feeding cup of milk. This worked, but only for a few minutes, as Ulysses had soon rejected his cup, looked at his mother again, and then been sick all over her blouse.

Irene knew that babies could feel out of sorts, and she did not think much more of the problem, even when he was later copiously sick over her shoulder as they travelled up the Mound on the 23 bus.

‘His little stomach is a bit upset this morning,’ she explained to Bertie. ‘And don’t look so embarrassed, Bertie. Nobody on this bus is going to bat an eyelid because a little baby like Ulysses brings up a few drops of milk! They’re probably remembering how they used to be sick themselves when they were younger!’

Bertie glanced at his fellow passengers. A teenage girl sitting opposite them, bound for Heriot’s School, was looking at Ulysses with evident disgust. When he was sick a second time, on this occasion somewhat more copiously, the girl got up and moved to a seat further down the bus. Bertie, glowing with embarrassment, stared fixedly at the floor. If only his mother would stop talking to him, he thought, then the other passengers might think that she and Ulysses had nothing to do with him.

‘Here, Bertie,’ said Irene. ‘Take Ulysses for a moment while I attend to my blouse. There’s a good boy.’