My youngest child is puffy-eyed from lack of sleep and therefore sluggishly dressing for World War 2 Day. Much to his disgust, boys  are not allowed to come dressed as soldiers flaunting weapons, but rather, as children who are about to be evacuated from Blitz-y London to the countryside with all its anticipative magical wardrobes. Items I’ve been able to forage for this event so far consist of skater shorts with pockets in the wrong places to be of the period, long  socks that read the word Disorder, his usual button up white shirt, a linen blazer and a grey v neck- even though the forecast is a blazing 25 degrees and sunny. Once WW2 boy’s transformation is complete, minus the blazer which he tears off declaring it ‘IMPOSSIBLE’, the tweenager, stationed at the bench with toast, YouTube and Latin verbs, snorts loudly.

“Don’t say anything,” I hiss, then shout at my old-timey boy, “You Look Authentic! You Look Authentic!” in what I hope is a jolly, reassuring manner. For some reason it’s coming out at top volume and I jingle my keys thinking of the recently vacated shop front on the other side of the hill.

“Calm down,” says the young one,oblivious to the snorts from his older siblings. He leaves the kitchen and starts pulling things out of drawers as he searches for something.

“Don’t spook him. He needs to eat rations and spend time in an imaginary bunker,” I mutter over my shoulder, then follow him out of the kitchen.

But the youngest child doesn’t seem bothered about the indignity of his costume.  He is focused on finding enough money for his latest fix. Not the dopamine hit delivered via his newly discovered obscure Japanese anime production that features a talking pig with a ‘weak nature’ who wears an earring and likes ‘making’, but the pleasures of the dairy shelf at Tesco Supermarket.

Tesco is the hub from which teenage schoolboys emerge around 8.15am clutching rations of their own. Bags of chocolate, large skinny cans of fizzy energy drink, bags of crisps and in my son’s case, a particular vanilla milkshake- drink thinly disguised as a health-cure, boasting the life affirming powers of ‘real vanilla beans’ amongst its E numbers and considerable amounts of sugar. I wish he hadn’t taken to Tesco like this , but I have to admit it was my crutch early  in our move. A safe haven where I used to lurk among the baked goods instead of attending Spin class, yoga class, French lessons or working on half finished manuscript, all crying out for my attention. Of course, now that I’m aware the cinnamon buns have been (allegedly) found to contain metal, I’m slightly less enamoured. I content myself with the reassurance that my son’s Ersatz Vanilla Milkshake addiction is just another phase, and that the Vanilla Drink will soon go the way of the talking pig, the fidget spinner, Pokemon Go, swap cards, chatter boxes and Bamboozle.

We load ourselves into the Fiat and it roars into life, carrying us up to the top of the hill. It’s a rare expedition in the car as we usually walk everywhere; hail, rain, sleet, snow or occasionally, shine. The Workaholic is in the sunny South of France, where, at this moment, he is about to be showered with awards. Here in London,  the rewards are the promise of authentic  sausages and mash, the pointy end of the school year  and an iPhone  weather forecast that appears to have been suddenly downgraded  from ‘London heatwave’ to 19 degrees with a  shower or two. The scratchy v neck jumper will be required for World War 2 Day after all.

I watch my youngest clamber out at the traffic lights near Tesco with a pang. He’ll be in Senior School in September. I smile at him, wave goodbye then head to the newly vacated repairs shop on the other side of the hill, to investigate the possibilities of a new adventure that doesn’t involve WW2 costumes, Latin verbs, creative cooking with mince, forgotten sport kits or school drop-offs.

An adventure of my own.