I stared at my father from behind the enormous red trolley, already jam-packed with more food and drink than any assembly of humans would ever be able to consume.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘People love peanuts.’

With an unintelligible grunt, he wedged a jar of peanuts as big as a carry-on suitcase into the trolley.

Nothing said love like a father–daughter excursion to the cash and carry on a Sunday afternoon.

‘Your mum loves peanuts,’ Dad reasoned as he dragged the trolley onwards. ‘I want to make sure we have enough.’

My plan had been to stay in bed with Patrick until I lost the use of my legs and yet, here I was, traipsing around the Croydon Costco (not the closest Costco but Dad’s favourite Costco), buying up the entire store in preparation for their vow renewal. I’d had a panicked call from my mother first thing this morning, asking me to accompany Dad on his shopping trip while she took one for the team and went to visit my nan who had apparently been ‘causing trouble’ at the nursing home and had her phone confiscated. Again.

‘I don’t think she’s going to spend the entire day shovelling KP Dry Roasted down her throat,’ I said while he considered a family-sized tub of wasabi peas. ‘Aren’t there other things to organize first?’

‘Such as?’

‘Venue, invitations, music, flowers, decorations, favours,’ I replied, counting off on my fingers. ‘And I’m assuming you’ve got something to wear.’

‘I’m wearing my suit.’ He swapped the wasabi peas for a giant box of Bombay Mix, then pointed at the label. ‘Can you still call it that?’

‘I think so,’ I said, even though I wasn’t actually sure. He shrugged and dumped it in the trolley. ‘You don’t mean your old grey suit?’

‘It’s a perfectly good suit.’

My dad was a man of few words and even fewer clothes. He wore his jeans until they fell apart and then he had Mum hem them into regrettable denim shorts which wore until the crotch split in two. And the less said about that particular family holiday to Lanzarote, the better.

‘It’s just, Mum’s gone all out on the dress so you might want to think about getting a new one,’ I suggested as I took in his stripy polo shirt and cargo trousers, each and every pocket filled to bursting with some sort of dad essential. ‘And you’ve had that one for a while, could be time to invest in a new one.’

He considered this, stroking his unshaven chin as we walked. Sunday was the only day my dad did not shave. It was a treat he held sacrosanct, along with his Chelsea bun from the village bakery and forty-five unquestioned minutes, in the toilet, with the newspaper.