Afternoon. Toddler crashed out my chest. He wakes up after 25 minutes and screams and screams. I change him. He screams. I give him food. He screams. I give him juice. He screams. I stick his coat on and he dashes for the door, laughing, and slides down the stairs.

I strap him in the pushchair and then we’re off, out into the crisp Valentine’s chill. Push slow, “One!” Push slow, “Two!” Push fast “Threeee!” Laugh and laugh and shrug off stares.

Over the Hill. Up to Seven Sisters. Buses filled with early commuters, staring blank disappointment through panes of scratched glass. Smiles from old women. “One!” push slow. “Two!” push slow. “Threeeee!” and laugh. We’re behind our own glass, but we don’t know it’s there.

Into the supermarket. Aisles filled with desperate men, clutching single roses with uncertainty. The chocolate aisle filled with the miserly and the unimaginative. We buy juice and little bags of “junk-free” crisps.

The spell breaks with the crinkling of the bags. The toddler screams. And screams. And screams. I hate people who eat their shopping before paying for it. And I think the child should wait. He screams louder and louder.

“Hello.”

It’s a young boy, swinging on a tubular barrier. The smaller child stops yelling.

“Hello.”

“Why was he crying?”

“He’s tired. He needs more sleep.”

“What’s his name?”

“William.”

“Hello William.” Then: “Does he cry at home?”

“Yes, sometimes. Especially when he’s tired.”

Pause. Then: “He’s got a scratch on his face.”

“Has he?”

“Yes.” Points: “Just there.”

“That’s not a scratch,” I say. “It’s a bit of grot.” I chip a sliver of dried grime from the child’s face.

“He’s got bogies up his nose.”

“Has he?”

“Yes. Dried bogies.”

“Well, it is cold. He must have had a runny nose.”

“I don’t like dried bogies.”

“No, I can imagine.”

Another lull. “What’s your name.”

“Ben. What’s yours?”

“Kameron. With a ‘K’.”

“That’s a nice name,” I lie, hating myself for my snobbery.

“How old is he?”

“He’s just over one year old. He’s one year and four months old.”

“I’m four. I’m nearly five.” He looks around for a bit. “Can he talk?”

“Not yet. He can say some things. ‘Juice’. ‘Socks’. ‘Shoes’. ‘Cheese’. Words like that.”

“I’ve been growing a plant at school. I’ll show you.”

The older boy finds his mother at the opposite till. She’s packing her shopping. I smile at her. Her face relaxes diffidently. I remember I’ve not shaved for a couple of days and that a stye has inflamed my left eye. I am wearing a good overcoat, but I have paint flecks on my cheap, brown shoes. I look down at heel. The child comes back with a clear plastic glass. Inside is damp cotton-wool wadding. A bean has split from its shell and has erupted into a seedling. The label on the front has the boy’s name in capital letters: KAMERON.

“I grew this at school. That’s a ‘K’, he says, tracing the letter with his finger. Look William.”

He thrusts the pot under the toddler’s nose. The child is deeply unimpressed and returns his gaze to the checkout woman who is blowing him kisses.

“That’s amazing,” I say. “What kind of bean is it?”

Then a voice from the back of the till: “Kameron.” It’s the boy’s mother.

He scurries off to her and gives her the bean. Then he rushes back. “Goodbye William”.

William is still enraptured by his female admirer.

“Goodbye Kameron,” I say. “Say ‘goodbye’ William,” I add, knowing well that he wouldn’t if he could.

I smile at the boy and his mother as they leave.

Ten minutes later we board a bus. I park the pushchair in the designated space and sit down next to it. On the other side of the buggy is a folding chair. One stop later a woman gets on the bus and pulls down the seat, squeezing herself onto it sideways so her legs are in the aisle. The toddler looks up at her often, but she refuses to acknowledge his existence. I feed him snacks and, now and then, look at the woman. She checks me out by looking at my reflection in the bus window. Then I realise that I’ve seen her before: not her, but a picture.