I suppose one of us should take him for a check-up at the Memory Clinic. A proper one, this time. I swerve into Toy World in Bedminister and we rush in, then amble around in a slow kind of panic: two men together, looking utterly ineffectual. We’re saved by a teenage shop assistant who fires a serious of questions at us and then hands Dad a bumper craft kit that seems to feature a lot of purple, sequins, glitter and some smelly pens. Dad looks at it in bemusement. The guy flicks his long jet-black fringe out of the way and stares directly at me. He’s got eyes like marbles, pale blue with swirls of indigo, and the tip of his tongue is pierced with a bolt.

‘A doll,’ I say, feeling as if my manhood has shrivelled and died in Aisle 3, next to the Barbies. ‘But not, you know, a normal one.’

‘Not a normal doll,’ he says under his breath. ‘This way, Gents.’

He marches through the shop, his DMs squeaking, and then grabs something off a shelf and thrusts it at me.

The doll has glossy brown hair and dark-brown eyes and a fierce expression: she’s like a plasticized version of Bethany. She’s dressed in a swimming costume and Hawaiian surf shorts; neatly laid out next to her is a life-ring, goggles and binoculars.

‘Lifeguard,’ the shop assistant says, and his tongue ring chinks against his teeth. ‘Complimentary dinghy included.’

I hope a doll with a life-saving boat and superhero swimming skills will be a good enough replacement for the one we buried on a beach in Italy.

‘Thanks, mate,’ I say and notice that my voice has dropped an octave. I turn to my father. ‘Dad, I do believe we have ageappropriate birthday presents that we are about to deliver to the intended recipient on time!’

‘Must be a first, Son,’ he says, smiling at me.

I don’t know how Amy does it. One afternoon and I’m smashed. We’ve been to the park and kicked a football about, eaten ice cream on a bench, in spite of the Siberian wind-chill, built a Lego spaceship, played three different board games, had two meltdowns and spent some time on the naughty step. Matt has now put Madagascar on, and we’re all slumped on the sofas with cups of tea, the kids on beanbags in front of us about an inch away from the screen. Amy’s stuck pizza and garlic bread in the oven and is icing a chocolate cake. It’s from a packet mix, she tells everyone, as if she’s just failed the Mothers’ High-Jump Championship.

I look at Matt to see if I’m meant to reply to this, but he shakes his head and says, ‘It’ll taste fantastic, love.’