There she is, Rosa July-Ann Spencer, propped up on a dozen pink sequinned cushions, her huge frilly green tutu dress popping outwards like the canopy of a garish tree. On her head is the tackiest princess tiara I’ve ever seen, even for a twelve-year-old.

                Her wild blue eyes are a little bit frightening, they must have her absolutely wired on sugar, judging by the empty sweet wrappers and cupcake cases she’s chucked on the floor. BIRTHDAY GIRL is announced on the wall behind her, a three-metre foil banner, pink text and sparkly patterns. No number for the age of course, I wonder how they get around that one.

                “Hello,” she calls over to me cheerily, “Lovely to see you, what’s your name?” Her tone is sickly infantile, I guess that’s part of the effect it all has. “I’m Laura, it’s lovely to meet you Rosa, here, I’ve brought you a present.”

                It feels wrong handing over this wrapped up Barbie thing – whatever it is they bought at the office. I feel complicit, but it’s out of my control.

               “Oh thank you Laura, that’s very kind,” she beams as I hand it over.

               She must have been through twenty presents so far, the carer was stuffing the third bin bag with discarded wrapping paper. So far, I can’t see the point in it at all, surely you’d get the same from a spoilt rich child, a Saudi royal kid or some American oligarch’s daughter. They insist these measurements will be the best, but I just can’t see it.

               “Where are my friends”, she demands of the nearest adult. “Er they’re not coming today, sweetheart,” offers a thirty-something old female carer.

                “But it’s my BIRTHDAY,” exclaims Rosa. “We have to have a PARTY.”

                That does make sense, to be fair, but maybe a bit much to organise an enthusiastic group of children every day. A young man brings out the quantum magnetoencephalography birthday crown as Rosa’s favourite pop song blares through the PA system. He ceremoniously removes the tiara and fits the device, complete with two-foot high golden plastic spindles, much to Rosa’s delight.

                “Happy birthday Rosa,” smiles the man.

                Well, there’s no welfare issues I can report, she’s fed, she’s clean, she’s sort of happy. I might find the whole thing completely sickening, but that’s no basis for a referral unfortunately. Happy Birthday starts to play.

               “Is mummy bringing in the cake today?”

               “No Rosa, you know she can’t see you.”

                That’s enough for me, I head for the door, making a swift exit after a young man steps in with a three-tier Barbie cake firing out sparks from its fountain candles, for the three thousandth time, I expect. I’m sure the measurements will help them for the sovereign AI model, another step forward in the Perpetual Birthday Programme. Such a pleasant-sounding title, the whole country supports it. They call it the Spoilt Brat Destruction Experiment in the office.

                As I reach the observation pane in the corridor, I see Rosa dancing frantically, completely hyper, with the device strapped securely to her head – the young man who brought it flapping about in worry every time she looks like she’ll bash it. I thought I’d be helping kids when I signed up, but war changes everything – we’ve all got to play our part. A couple of the experimenters are watching intently through the glass, they don’t see me.

                “The Rusky Mummies will be ferocious after this one,” I overhear one of them say. I feel sick to my stomach, I had heard rumours they used the weapon on mothers, to make them murderous towards everyone, but I thought surely not. They might not know themselves anyway, they’ll be low level, it could still all just be rumours.

                I sign back out of PBP 43 and check the Well-Fair app for my next visit – typical – three floors up and about five-hundred yards of corridor away – this app is useless at planning, no practicality at all. Amy from the office walks past, “How’s Brat 43?” “Yeah she’s fine…” is all I can muster as she breezes past. They’re so cold the way they talk about the children, but there’s no point challenging it, they’re just as institutionalised as them. A tear slips out and I fight off a full-on cry.

               I need to pull myself together – that’s the first one out of the way with, it’ll get easier. I think about Harry, my son, and why I’m doing this – he needs a good life and a chance for the war to be over by the time he’s 16. I gather my composure and march on to PBP 326.