Flora was a hippy in her teens, and she's damned if she's going to start driving a car now. Why bother? She sets off at 7.50 every morning, pulling out into the middle of the red route with a smile of fixed serenity, and forcing all those smelly old buses move at a more reasonable speed. Poppy, on the plastic seat, is proud as punch, although Merlin, in the trailer, is becoming less keen as he gets older. “Please Mum,” he usually begs, “drop me around the corner so that nobody sees, eh?” The other morning, Flora asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. “A climate criminal,” he said.