By Hannah Tomlinson, aged 38, who was ready and willing to have an affair with one of the hot dads

I WAS all ready for the school run. Miu Miu coat. Mulberry bag. Devastating list of my children’s achievements. Then nothing happened, because I’m in Warrington. 

I joined the throng around the gates, waiting for our children to depart and for a wave of competitive boasting to begin. Would we be aggressively comparing our husband’s jobs? Our Etsy stores? Houses, cars, holidays? As it turned out, none of them. 

No, when our little ones wandered in, the other mothers turned around and silently departed. I was left there, chai latte in hand, mouth agape, with nobody to tell about the triathlon I’m doing in May. 

I tried again the next day. ‘Can anyone hook me up with a private tutor?’ I asked. ‘Isabella’s struggling with her Spanish.’ Blank looks. ‘They’ve got teachers at the school,’ one drab mother who can’t have spent even an hour on her hair muttered. 

Okay, so this crowd isn’t aspirational! Though still managing to ostracise me, I noted, impressed. 3pm was no different. I announced my intention to organise a fundraising gala to shrugs. Where was these mothers’ combative spirit? 

My husband’s bonus? Nothing. Our plans to build a basement swimming pool and home cinema? Nothing. Our half-term trip to the opening gala for Santander’s new art museum? Either they’re hiding it very well or they actually weren’t jealous. 

I told my husband it was a mistake to move here. In anywhere civilised I’d already be at war with the ruling clique after they shut me out of the PTA for having the wrong kind of Cockapoo. We’re moving back to Islington.