Clara fancied a little trip back to Victorian Britain. I have a fondness for that time. I love the clothes, the patter, the rank hypocrisy. It’s got the lot. And I’ve come at it from all angles – Cyber Kings and Gelth incursions and Giant Rats – well, perhaps the world isn’t quite prepared for that one.

But it’s a long old period if you go back to the very beginning (1837 – tight trousers, loud checks, splendid stovepipe hats) to the very end (1901 – morning dress, mourning jewellery, less splendid, smaller toppers) so choosing exactly when is quite a challenge.

‘What about Nelson?’ asked Clara as we sat having beans on toast in the Cloisters.

‘What about him?’

‘I wouldn’t mind meeting him.’

‘You said Victorian!’

‘Wasn’t he a Victorian?’

‘No! What do they teach in schools these days?’

Clara giggled, and her heart-shaped face crumpled up. ‘Search me.’

‘I mean we could go and see Nelson, no reason why not, but you did say Victorian and we need to have some parameters or we could just end up anywhere – again – and—’

‘OK! OK! Florence Nightingale! What about Florence Nightingale? She was definitely a Victorian.’

‘Strange woman,’ I mused. ‘Kept a pet owl in her apron, did you know that?’

Clara did not know that and didn’t seem keen to find and out more so we moved on.

Florence took us to Mary Seacole and then the Crimea seemed on the cards but we had specified Britain, so with a sigh Clara finally said, ‘All right, you choose!’ (Which is what I’d hoped she’d say in the first place.)

But it’s easier said than done isn’t it? I mean, with all that time and all those people to choose from. All those wonderful, weird, fascinating people! Humphrey Davey, Ada Lovelace, Mary Anning, Bram Stoker – but I digress! I’m doing it again.

So, in the end, after complex and logical reasoning I stuck a pin in a book and we settled on the Great Exhibition of 1851. I’d been before, of course and secretly hoped I wouldn’t run into myself as that might cause all sorts of problems (see Blinovitch, Chapters 3–48).