‘Here we are,’ he says, like he always does. ‘Buon appetito.’ He’s so proud of his Italian heritage. Well, I am, too, of mine. I’m half Italian, a quarter Swedish. Dad’s parents – Papa and Nonna – came to London in the early 1950s and ran a gelato parlour in Clerkenwell, where gangsters and organ grinders alike enjoyed their stracciatella; my mother’s parents met in London when Nana Larry (her real name was Brigitta) had a week off from the Electrolux factory in Stockholm, came to London with a friend and met Grandpa Larry outside the Ritz, in a rainstorm. My family history – well, some of it – is the most interesting thing about me.

I go over to the table. We eat. We do not talk. I want to talk.

‘Hey, Dad, did you know there’s a blind architect?’ I pause, brave, my fork over my steaming bowl, toying with a cube of pancetta. ‘In Hawaii. He’s about your age. He’s semi-retired but he consults, he teaches. There was an article in the Evening Standard about him and I’ve found his profile on Twitter. He’s really interesting.’

Dad sighs. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah. He’s called John Harrison Burrows; he consults on conference spaces and art galleries – multi-sensory, accessible to all. He’s got a studio on the Big Island. He teaches architecture at the university there.’ I gabble, trying to get the words out before he shuts me up.

‘That’s nice for him.’

‘You could be a blind architect. Or you could teach. You probably know more about architecture than anyone in the world!’

‘No, I couldn’t.’

‘Why not? You could read all about this guy and see what he does. He does TED Talks and stuff. He uses special technology.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘It’s not impossible.’

Dad became blind when I was ten. He had just qualified to be an architect and was embarking on his first project.

Dad lays down his fork. ‘Why don’t you look up all the people who are blind and aren’t architects?’

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Or those blind people who can’t do anything at all.’

‘Dad.’