A toddler, in the sort of pink for girls very popular with Eastern european families, is being pushed along past the park in her heavy duty pushchair. Her arms are determinedly folded, a fierce frown and pouted lips, like a minature Mussolini en route to his balcony.

A red faced little boy wearing spiderman pyjama’s and crying forcefully is walked back to the bus stop by his Mum, where his half a dozen siblings are standing about – all about the same size with the same bullet headed haircuts – where he promptly belts his brother in the face. The brother starts crying, as well he might. “Spiderman” looks satisfied for a moment, then cries even more fiercely, to maintain a parity of percieved pain.

On the Thameslink train heading for Farringdon a Scottish family with two small children gamefully keep them entertained. The Dad holds the toddler up by the doors and shows him sights out of the window, adverts, anything to keep him interested. The Mum reads a story to the litttle girl, who sometimes looks at the book, sometimes out of the window, following it intermittently. One of the main characters in the book is a dog called “tramp” and, at one point, she pronounces it as “Trump” and laughs.