His wrists are covered with candy bracelets. Five or more on each arm.

‘You kids sit down and get comfy while I finish off the meal.’

She leaves the room.

‘You like Cheers?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Cheers,’ he says. ‘The award-winning American TV show.’

Actually I do. Saw reruns on YouTube back in my London university days. Flatmate used to watch them on her laptop whenever she was down.

‘Yeah.’

He switches on the huge TV in the corner of the room. All the furniture is arranged to face it. The wallpaper is more like pub carpet: dark reds and greens and purples. A swirly, paisley pattern. Looks like fabric, like it’s soft to the touch. The actual carpet is shag pile. Thick and soft. This kind of décor is unusual in Sweden, to say the least. Most people associate carpets with asthma. They see outdoor shoes inside and they associate that with 1950s English B&Bs, the kind with fluffy rugs under the toilet in the splash zone, and also, just for added pizazz, on top of the toilet-seat lid.

The theme tune of Cheers bursts out of the speakers and Emil switches the volume down.

‘Sit,’ he says, pointing to an armchair.

I sit and he sits in the next one over. There are three armchairs in this room, all pointed at the TV. No sofa. No bookshelves.

‘Press the button,’ he says. He presses his and his chair reclines and his feet shoot up on some fabric-sheathed platform.

I do as he says and smile as my chair transforms into a magnificent, kitsch thing, similar to the one Dad used to own.

‘How long have you lived here in Visberg?’

‘Since I was born,’ says Emil.

Two small doors on the far wall burst open. Some kind of hatch. Margareta is there, cigarette in hand, pushing through two drinks.

‘Bottoms up,’ she says, and then she does some kind of move. I think she contorted herself to lift her bottom but the wall is obscuring the view.

Emil resets his chair and gets up to bring the drinks over.

‘One for you,’ he says, placing down my drink on a faux-mahogany shelf that swivels out from my chair. ‘And one for me.’

His looks like Coke and mine looks like a margarita, with crushed salt or sugar crystals lining the lip of the glass. The liquid is semi-frozen. Nuclear pink. Finished with a slice of blood orange and a tiny umbrella, and a grape skewered with a cocktail stick.

‘Chin, chin,’ says Emil, his candy bracelet jingling on his wrist.

We watch the show.

Frasier’s sat at the bar. The audience laughs. Emil sniggers. I take a sip. Sweet to the point of being too much, but it’s not bad. Potent. I’ll drink a third because I have to face that steep hill back down to Toytown later tonight.