‘When I grow up…’ begins my best friend at the age of seven, ‘I want to be a doctor, like my mum.’

The teacher praises her for her altruism and moves on systematically to the next child, asking that they too divine their future in front of the class, for everyone to hear. Around the room every child seems to be fidgeting in their seat, waiting for their turn to have the spotlight cast upon them and receive their own metaphorical pat on the head from Miss as she judges the career choices of those too young to even understand that being a doctor means watching people die and being a fire-fighter means getting burned. I sit in silence, solemnly considering my options. Finally, she points with a careless motion to the last girl left at the back of the room, to me, and repeats the question for the thirtieth time in succession- ‘and what do you want to be when you grow up?’

‘I don’t want to grow up,’ is my quiet, withdrawn response. The teacher frowns, perhaps upset that my answer broke her perfect pattern of ask-and-praise, and searches her mind for a response that wasn’t the same meaningless regurgitation of approval that she offered like a poisoned apple to the rest of the class.

‘Everyone has to grow up, Poppy.’

I regret the honesty of my answer and quickly offer her the word ‘vet’, to which her perplexed expression changes back to her default façade of meaningless complacency and she turns back to the board to continue the lesson. I become mute once more and taste the bitter twang of my lie in the back of my throat as I sit in resentment of the clock that keeps ticking at the side of the room.