He throws his head back, laughing loudly. “I imagine he has a very firm grip on his dobber and never loses control, Laurie.”

“Please stop. Anyway, he wasn’t around then. After my mother married him, we went to places like Antibes.”

“Why does it sound like you preferred the British bingo place?”

“Because it’s true. We used to stay with my grandma in Seaton every holiday.” He looks at me, and I elaborate. “A little seaside town in Devon.”

“Not somewhere the judge would want to visit?”

“Nope. He’d be as out of place as Boris Johnson in a nunnery.”

He laughs loudly.

I look at the lush colours of the walls and the carpet. “This looks like a Bollywood movie. Delicious,” I say, and he smiles at me, slowing his pace so I can gaze my fill.

We come up to the table and find my sister looking at us with a strange expression on her face.

“Alright, Lennie?” I say, sliding into my seat and tugging Mags down too when he displays a propensity to stand and gape at everyone.

“Don’t stare,” I admonish him.

“But there is a lady over there with an eye patch and a pirate hat.”

I chuckle. “It’s still rude to stare.”

“It’s rude to wear polyester, but it doesn’t appear to have filtered through to here.”

I glance at my sister, who is sitting with her mouth open, looking at us. “Catching flies?” I ask. “What on earth’s the matter, Len?”

She shuts her mouth with an audible snap. “Nothing,” she says quickly. “Nothing at all.”

I look at the smile she’s struggling to conceal. “Bingo makes you weird,” I observe as Chris comes over to the table with a tray of drinks.

“You have no idea,” he says. “She wanted to play it on our fucking honeymoon.”

“Did you not have a dobber down your pants?” Mags enquires, and I snort beer over the table.

“Disgusting,” Mags says calmly as my sister squarks and grabs the bingo cards to save them.

“Okay,” she says, handing them out once we’ve dried the table to her satisfaction. “You each get two cards. On them are numbers. The caller will shout the numbers. With your dobber, mark any numbers on your card that he calls. Call out if you get a line.”

“As in cocaine?” Mags asks.

She frowns reprovingly at him while I hide my smile. “No. As in little numbers on the multicoloured cards.” She hands Mags a dobber. “May the luck of the Danish be with you.”

“Really?”

“Pshaw, no. I hope you lose so badly you cry.”

“So ruthless,” her husband says admiringly.

I grab my cards and uncap my dobber. “To the victor the spoils,” I say with relish.

Mags turns his head to stare at me.