‘Right, come on then. In the car, both of you,’ I say, with Chloe in my arms and the other hand holding the millions of things Barnaby apparently needs at school today. We’re already late and I’ve no idea how when we were all woefully up at five-thirty this morning so have had ample time to get our shit together. I try to get to the car key so that I can unlock it but it’s underneath all of the school crap. I try to wriggle my hand and unlock it using the button on the handle, but that’s no use either. I dump Barnaby’s stuff on the ground with a thump. ‘No, Barnaby!’ I shout a little too loudly as he absentmindedly walks towards the road. ‘Stay by the wall or the fence. Come on,’ I say, clicking the button and unlocking the car. ‘Actually, you stay here, right next to me,’ I say, swinging open the back door of the car and putting Chloe into her seat before strapping her in. She’s used to the madness of the morning routine now so grabs her horses from the toy rack thingumijiggy that hangs off the back of the seat in front and starts playing.

‘Right, you next,’ I say to Barnaby, making a mental note not to forget all the things I’ve left on the pavement. With my hand on his shoulder – I’m forever paranoid about my kids and roads – I walk a couple of paces to the back of the car only to notice the car behind, a flashy sports car, is practically touching my bumper. ‘This way then,’ I say, guiding him back to the front.

The car in front, a four-by-four, isn’t as close, but it’s close enough that I’d have to sidestep my way through and probably lean over my bonnet in a way teen films or music videos suggest is sexy – which is a pretty inappropriate thought to have stood next to my five-year-old at eight-fifty in the morning.

Who on earth would think it was OK to park this close to another car and just swan off without a care in the world? I’ll tell you who. Commuters. Definitely not the locals. Just some posh city twats who have parked and walked to the station.

Now is not the time to get stressed about it, I tell myself.

‘OK, you’ll have to climb over Chloe,’ I instruct, shoving him back the way we came and opening her door.

‘My bag!’ Barnaby calls.

‘Shit, yes,’ I mutter to myself, closing the door and scooping up the lot before getting into the driver’s seat and parking everything on the passenger seat beside me. ‘Is your seatbelt on, Barns?’

‘Yeeeeeeeeeees,’ he trills, just as I hear the click to confirm it.

‘Great. Let’s do this then.’