I don’t argue, because no one argues with Sue. But when I get in the jeep I can’t face going back to the penthouse early, as I don’t think either Casey or Angelica will be pleased to see me. Out of habit, I head for the Wells Road, past my flat, but I don’t stop to look. The villages pass by in a Bath-stone blur: Pensford, Clutton, Temple Cloud.

Suddenly I know where I’m headed.

If this had been a festival summer, they’d still be cleaning up, but the Glastonbury site has had a year off to recover. I park up on the main road and, when I get out, the terrain triggers dozens of memories: smells and sights and fragments of music.

None come from the year that matters, that flooded weekend when this mess kicked off. It’s hard to believe I’m standing in the same place: then it was a sea of dark mud and multicoloured Gore-tex. Now everywhere has been bleached by the heatwave, like someone has applied a vintage-photo Instagram filter to the countryside.

I walk until the sweat soaks through my T-shirt, trying to make sense of everything. If Gemma were here, she’d help me find a way through – except she’s part of the problem.

What would life be like with her, and a new baby, and Casey too? Dan the Family Man.

That makes me laugh. It’s not me – never has been.

It’s time to return to my old life, appreciate the freedoms I have spent the last fifteen years guarding. It won’t be exactly the same, because I’ll spend weekends with Casey—

Except what will she think when she sees my real place? Even if she can accept it, Angelica might not: the pollution on the main road is off the scale.

When I try to picture what relationship I’m going to have with my daughter, I draw a blank. And I realize something else. Angelica made me choose between Casey and Gemma, but in reality I don’t believe she does want me to be in Casey’s life, even if I play by the rules. She will do everything she can to scupper my chances – and there is nothing I can do to stop her.

I climb back into the jeep, disappointed that coming here hasn’t helped. I imagine putting my foot down, driving away from the whole shitshow. My dad would have been long gone by now. His ultimate escape plan was always the Costa del Sol, and for all I know, that’s where he’s ended up. I’m not even sure whether he’s dead or alive, though he has the survival instincts of a cockroach.

I turn on the stereo to drown out my thoughts, but turn it back off again straight away. I can’t even face music, that’s how bad things are.

But as I join the main road I spot a signpost to Weston-super-Mare and, without thinking, take the turning. No point walking back into the penthouse firing line before I have to.