S is now two years old and we are paying our first visit to a speech therapist. He is not talking or understanding, but we don’t really know why, except that he does have glue ear. The paediatrician who tested him for the glue ear had mentioned the words developmental delay, but had not elaborated and I had been too stunned to ask.

I have been to this community clinic before and know that it is not child friendly. Parents are not allowed to take buggies inside and there is no parking on site, so it is a choice between finding some way to secure the buggy to the railings outside with a bicycle chain, or park in the street around the corner and carry or drag your toddler towards the clinic. I choose the latter.

The speech therapist works in a room on the first floor, with a small waiting area attached. S is even more impatient than your average toddler and I have, as always, bought a large bag of essentials, drinks and snacks. He starts to eat his way through a packet of custard cream biscuits, pulling them apart to bite out the cream and then discarding the biscuit on the floor.

The speech therapist is welcoming. It is a warm late spring day and the window is ajar to ventilate the room. As she tries in vain to attract the attention of a screaming S with toys, bubbles and shaving foam, he fights his way out of my arms and heads manically straight towards the open window. I catch him just in time and he sinks his teeth into my arm.

‘He must be very hard work for you,’ she says. ‘I think I need to refer him to a colleague at the hospital.’

We never see her again.