I sweep my weeping child up in my arms and hold him close. He wraps his legs around my waist and I drop my hands to support him under his bottom and to stop his skirt from riding up too much. It’s going to be a few minutes before he is able to speak; I mumble comforting nonsense and scan the playground for information. A little way off is his friend, Adam, looking confused, and Adam’s mum, smouldering.

Oh lord. She’s never seen his Transformers T-shirt before. Somehow, though, I think that the problem is a little lower down. I hope he will calm down enough to talk before she comes over: the near-constant tremors suggest, however, that he’s going to be a while.

“How dare you?” she demands. I raise an eyebrow but say nothing. “You are making Adam, my son, into a poof.”
“I am? How?” I ask.
“By making Simon wear that.” She spits the words at me.
“When last I checked, cotton did not have magical powers, and I have never forced Simon into anything.”

Shaking my head sadly, I carry my still-sobbing son home.