‘When a woman has a baby inside her, she keeps some of its cells forever. Your kid left cells inside you where you can never lose them.’ I gave her another hug. ‘You’re going to be fine, I promise. C’mon, let’s go check out some more bums and willies.’

And Jayde beamed her Beyoncé beam and suddenly, Florence became more enjoyable than I thought it could be.

Me and the Prossers stood at the back of the throng every time our tour group stopped for an explanation and made rude jokes and observations like the naughtiest kids in class. We saw David several times, plus Botticelli’s Venus and Artemisia Gentileschi’s Salome Beheading Holofernes, and a million and one tits, but once the kids needed nappy changes and started grizzling for food, the screeching started and I ran out of enthusiasm for art.

The Prossers left to find the toilets while I stayed in a crowd looking at a wooden shield in a glass case with an image of a horrified woman in the centre – Caravaggio’s Medusa. I found myself standing in front of a guy, who I’d singled out earlier as being One to Watch. He carried that air of wrongness – an air I’m always so good at sniffing out. Greasy hair, darting eyes, baggy jeans. I could smell him – old milk and cigarettes. As the crowd hemmed in around Medusa and her horrified face stared down at me, I felt a pressure against my arse.

Tickling. His fingers.

Funny how they always gravitate to me, isn’t it?

He stopped tickling and rubbed around my buttock region for a bit, clearly enjoying the fact I was trapped; penned in by sweaty humans as more and more crowded round the glass case, remarking on the craftsmanship of the shield, the aghast expression on Medusa’s face, the snakes spilling out of her head. And ever so slowly I reached behind me, made gentle contact with his wandering hand, held the first two fingers and with one quick jolt, snapped them right the fuck back. Crack!

His howl filled the already-crowded space and he quickly dropped away, as did the bodily pressure around me. While all eyes were trained on him, awaiting an explanation for the sudden and prolonged screaming he’d seen fit to fill the stuffy room with, I slipped out, quietly on a sweep of floaty florals, joining up with the unwitting Prossers outside.

We carried on walking around the exhibits but it was soon clear that none of us were appreciating it as much as we were the thought of a good gift shop and some decent cakes. We did bond over our mutual love for the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, I suppose that was culturally appropriate.