‘Oh, Angela was always going to abscond,’ I say. ‘That’s just the kind of person she is. And if anyone’s brought me down, it’s me. I’ve done that all on my own. You really don’t need to be sorry, Dad,’ I add quietly. ‘You’ve been a fantastic dad. Blind, or not bloody blind.’

‘Thank you,’ he says. We are out in the bright sunlight now, the Shard winking at us from across the street. ‘Even if you don’t mean it.’

‘I do bloody mean it!’

My eyes adjust to the sun. Dad is wearing sunglasses, purely as sunscreen. ‘My Peters and Lee look,’ he said, as we left The Palladian, and I am old enough to get the reference.

‘The Shard’s just over there,’ I say. ‘About twenty feet away. It’s magnificent, Dad.’ Dad followed its construction. He’s read about it from inception to completion. He’s studied it for years. ‘I’m getting that giddy feeling looking all the way to the top.’

‘Describe it to me,’ he says, as we walk towards it. ‘I’ve listened to Steven Berkoff banging on about it on VocalEyes, but I want to hear your description.’

‘VocalEyes?’

‘London Beyond Sight,’ he says. ‘A project where actors describe iconic London landmarks for the blind. I’ve listened to all the luvvies waxing lyrical on some of the great buildings in London.’

I laugh. ‘I’m not sure I’m going to be as lyrical as Steven Berkoff.’

‘Good. I want it from your eyes.’

We’ve stopped now, on the pavement. People are snaking their way around us. ‘OK, well, it’s endless, majestic. It rises like a ship’s mast, an obelisk, a tall and narrow pyramid, almost.’ Oh, I’m doing well here. ‘Yet there’s something brittle about it, something piercing. It’s grey and it’s blue and it’s white,’ I say. ‘The clouds and the sky are reflected in it, like it’s a painting by Monet, or Constable.’

‘A ship’s mast,’ says Dad, concentrating. ‘Clouds by Monet … OK, OK, good, thank you, Prue.’ He nods then squeezes the back of my arm. I’m pleased with myself. ‘Right, let’s walk all the way up to it.’

We cross the road and head for the main entrance, the corporate lobby beyond.

‘OK, we’re here.’

‘I want to get close to the glass, how many more steps?’

‘Three or four.’

‘Guide me.’

I lead him a little to the right. ‘We’re here, Dad. Just reach out your hand straight in front of you.’

Dad takes the flat of his hand and places it against one of the glass panes. ‘It’s warm.’

‘The sun’s right on it.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Good,’ he adds, like he has come home. And I realize that behind his sunglasses he is crying.

‘Oh, Dad,’ I say.