Perhaps it’s the fate of all only children to have over-protective parents. Or perhaps it’s only the shy ones and the not-quite-right ones, but all too often his parents seemed to forget it was the free-wheeling 1980s, that their son was a man of twenty-six, that he’d travelled alone overseas for prolonged periods, and had been making a reasonable living for years, that their son was a man who was, in fact, a man.

‘How did the lecture go?’

Sylvie typed his lectures for him, which gave her an acceptable excuse to enquire, but he knew her real reason for ringing was to check he hadn’t collapsed in an attack of nerves. It was of no matter that he’d never botched a lecture, she was convinced he still might. Ever since his senior years at school, she had typed his papers; she was quick and convenient and she enjoyed the work. But maybe, he was now thinking, it was time to find a more detached typist.

He assured her the lecture had gone well, that the audience had travelled with him inside the church, that they experienced something of the wonder he, himself, had felt. But still she persisted.

‘Sylvie!’ He spoke more sharply than he intended. Then more quietly, ‘Mum,’ — he never called her ‘Mum’ — ‘I’m fine, and the lecture could not have gone better.’

And before she could say any more, he told her his dinner was getting cold, and he would speak with her later in the week.

He wished that a meal really was ready. It was foolish not to have bought a hamburger on the way home. He could never eat before these events, and he was now very hungry. He went to the kitchen to investigate. The choice was limited; he could cobble together fried eggs on a single slice of toast, with a banana for dessert. And set about preparing it.

For the first half of the century his kitchen had served as tea-room for the staff of Simon & Sons, manufacturers of men’s suits, and apart from a new stove and oven, this area remained largely unchanged; even the blackboard for the tea-room roster was still fixed to the wall, although it was now converted to a memo board. His living quarters, about 20 per cent of the entire space, occupied the former company offices with the partitions removed, and the factory floor had become his studio. He had moved in here nearly three years ago, and now couldn’t imagine making his home anywhere else.