The power of children’s imaginations

Last summer, in the bc era, I took my then three-year-old to a new group play session: ‘Lottie’s Magic Box.’ Off we trooped in the usual north London fashion: child on scooter, imperious and unmoving, hauled along by mother in the role of husky. Micro, purveyor of scooters to the middle-classes, sell colour-coordinated leads especially for this purpose. It sometimes crosses my mind that they should also sell whips for the pre-schoolers to brandish.

The map on the event website directed us to what looked like an office block in a park and as we opened the door, any wisps of hope that this might be an uplifting hour of bonding and fun evaporated. The room was the size of a police holding-cell, and already there were mums banked up around three of the walls, self-medicating with iPhones. In the middle of the room, the mass of Rubys and Oscars milled like restless cattle, grinding rice cakes underfoot.

Stand-up comics complain about tough gigs but no audience of adults can match the brutality of a pre-school crowd. People say that even babies have a rudimentary moral sense. I say, in my experience, under-fives are entirely without mercy. One misstep from the entertainment, a moment of weakness, and you’re toast. ‘Can I tell you something?’ said a small girl to me recently, after I’d spent half a day playing with her. ‘I don’t think you’re fun at all.’

Against the fourth wall stood Lottie, a slight thirtysomething, and a small wooden box. No costumes, no lights, no glitter ball, no snacks, no pictures or puppets, no bubble machine in sight. Lottie, I thought, you’re dead. But as it happened, I was wrong. And as I contemplate the months of socially isolated single-parenthood ahead — as I feel the walls of our kitchen closing in — the thought of that hour with Lottie gives me hope.