‘The blind architect. From Hawaii. He consults on libraries and centres for the blind and suggests things like using panels of differing lights, and textured surfaces, to aid people’s navigation of spaces. Makes sure they serve the vision of their purpose.’ I read that on the internet. I think I’ve paraphrased it quite well. Should I have brought him up, though, at this point? The blind architect?

‘He’s a clever guy, then,’ says Dad. ‘Let’s go up to the second floor.’ He takes his hand from the pillar and we head upstairs, then scoot up further, to the upper atrium. I describe scarves and artefacts and trinkets. Dark wood balustrades and panelling. There’s a whispery kind of restraint in posh shops like this. A rarefied air. We mooch, we linger and we trace our fingers over slippery fabrics and run them through lace and buttons and pins. We don’t smile a whole lot. We hardly talk. But we are here. Finally, I think we’ve been in every room.

‘Hungry?’ asks Dad.

‘Hungry,’ I agree.

We come out on Kingly Street. ‘Is the clock still there?’ asks Dad. ‘Up on the arch?’

I look up. ‘Yes.’

‘“No minute gone comes ever back again, take heed and see ye nothing do in vain,”’ says Dad. The inscription, black on gold, scrolling beneath the clock, is ignored by all the people wasting their lives below it. ‘Take heed,’ he repeats.

‘Yes, Dad.’

We walk down Carnaby Street. It’s so busy there is barely room on the pavement in front of us for Dad’s tapping cane, and we shift like clams within a chattering sea of slow-moving people until a sudden commotion to our left causes a ripple. There’s a bustle of people foraging round a hotel entrance, men with cameras jostling and crunching shoulders with each other, and a young woman steps out, flanked by bodyguards, her head down.

‘What’s going on?’ asks Dad.

‘Margot Robbie,’ I say. I recognize her straight away. ‘Actress. Very beautiful. She’s come out of a hotel and is signing autographs by the looks of it.’ There’s a huddle of people around her, thrusting things under her nose. The flash of a silver pen.

‘Yes, I’ve heard of her,’ says Dad. ‘Can you describe her?’

How can I describe such perfection? And do I want to? Do I want to list features so far from my own? Such beauty, when even a fragment of it has been denied to me? ‘Well,’ I say, ‘she has large, almond-shaped eyes, full lips, an angular face that is contoured in all the right places. Cheekbones to die for. A smile to break a million hearts.’