“Yes, yes, I can see it now. Some dreary church hall with dripping radiators, or some dire school cafeteria with squashed peas still on the floor from lunchtime. People arrive all timid and grateful because they’re getting something for free. They don’t value the lessons you give them, because you give them for nothing. No one makes an effort to look nice, because why would you bother for a free yoga workshop? Everything is ugly and dull and boring and gray and—”

This was an oddly accurate description of many of Marcel’s free yoga workshops.

“Well, how would you do it differently?” he asked.

“Wear my very best yoga clothes. Charge people fifty pounds for a workshop. Let them see that I, and my practice, have value. Offer them something to aspire to. I would try my very best to be an inspiration to people, not a dull charity giver.”

Marcel Bottle let out a deep sigh.

“Well, everyone’s entitled to their opinion,” he said. “Where next?”

“I think I’d like to see this Winter Fair, please,” said Jupiter Peacock. “And then perhaps you could drop me off at the university? I have a meeting there this afternoon.”

“No problem,” said Marcel, wondering whether he should in fact just tell JP to walk from now on if he wanted to go somewhere. Was that what this Hieronymus Moon would recommend? Maybe someone should get him out of his ceramic bottle and ask him. After all, if you drive people around everywhere you are surely robbing them of the chance to walk. JP could certainly do with losing a few pounds. But Marcel didn’t say anything, because he was too nice.

Soon the car passed a massive mansion built in an ancient Russian style. It was painted a light tasteful pink, and its metallic-hued domes sparkled in the weak winter sunlight: one was gold-plated; one was silver-plated. The third was solid bronze. Two security guards stood watch beside a set of golden gates.

“Good heavens, what’s that place? Not another school?” asked JP.

“That,” said Marcel, “is the local cats’ home.”

“But how . . . ?”

“It’s quite a long story,” said Marcel. “But basically someone donated a billion pounds to them. Inside that building are the richest cats in the whole world. Each one has its own butler. Their food is served on solid silver platters. I hear that the chef is in line for the first Michelin star to be given for pet food.”

For the first time that morning, JP actually looked impressed. Or maybe it was just surprise. Whatever it was, he gave up pinching Lexy for the next ten minutes while they drove to the Town Hall car park.