His brow furrows and he looks into the distance. Then he shakes his head. ‘I’m sorry, Nick, I have no recollection of that.’

I’m astonished. My father has almost never apologized to me. He pushes himself to his feet, using his fists on the armrests to lever himself upright.

‘I’m not quite sure what I’m going to give you to eat.’

I follow his slippered feet as he shuffles into the kitchen. We look in the fridge and the cupboards, and as we accrue a random selection of vaguely edible food, some of which is even within its use-by date – a can of tuna, a packet of no-longer crisp Ryvita, ketchup, frozen green beans – I’m reminded of the ravenous child I once was, scavenging for my supper, coupling unlikely combinations of food: pairing cubes of mandarin jelly with chocolate sprinkles, Cheddar with tinned sweetcorn. And I wince inwardly at how I’ve neglected my father, now reduced to foraging in his own home, as I once had to.

It’s late afternoon on a Friday and I’m bone-tired. Tamsyn and I have been filming at Trebah Gardens in Cornwall all week, for their new website and publicity brochure. The gardens are beautiful, if you like that kind of thing, but the starts have been early, the days long. I left at five this morning to get to Bristol in time to drop off the gear and download the photos and then turn round and head back to Somerset. I’m not sure string beans and crackers are really going to cut it. I find a couple of old but cold cans of Thatchers in the fridge and I pop the top of one, stick the other in my pocket.

‘Dad,’ I say, as we look at our haul.

He mutters, ‘It’s not so bad. Not so bad.’

‘Dad, let’s go to the pub.’

He brightens. ‘Good idea, Son. Good idea.’

Now that I’m a bit calmer, I notice how empty the house is.

‘Where is everything?’ I ask, wandering back into the sitting room.

‘Ah, now I recall. I wanted to tell you that I’ve decided to move.’

‘Move? Where? When?’

‘I asked Audrey, from the village, to help me pack and sort out… well, your mother’s things. It’s mostly finished now.’ He opens the door to the dining room and shows me neat piles of cardboard boxes. ‘I didn’t want to involve Amy, but I’ll need her help to put the house on the market, find somewhere smaller to live. More manageable.’

‘Oh. Well, I guess that’s a good idea. What about your flat? I can move out, if you want to be back in Bristol.’

‘Too many stairs. You stay there, Son.’