We’ve come to a talk. We haven’t been out for a few days as Dad has had a summer cold, but he found out about this on the internet. Expressed an interest to come. It’s an hour-long presentation by an architect called Lawrence P. Sullivan, who wants to ask how sound can and should influence British design.

‘“Sound is one of our primary senses”,’ reads Dad, from the Braille brochure on his lap he picked up in the lobby. ‘“Yet architects tend to focus almost exclusively on the visible, without paying attention to the other senses. Sullivan explains why architects need to use their ears and not just their eyes.” Should be fantastic. Did you bring a book?’

‘No, why?’

‘You might get bored. Not really your scene, is it?’

‘I’ll be all right. And is it your scene?’ I ask. ‘Your scene again?’

‘It’s always been my scene. Fruit Pastille?’

I take one and Dad puts the packet back in his pocket. ‘No, I mean to actually get involved in. Come on, Dad, the subject matter! Architects using their other senses. It’s right up your street! Or it could be.’

‘One step at a time,’ says Dad, and I take this as a small Dad Hint not to bang on about him becoming any sort of a blind architect again, especially as John Harrison Burrows, the one from Hawaii, is featured in the brochure. There’s a short interview with him. A couple of photos. I see Dad trace his finger over that page of his Braille version now, but he says nothing.

There’s an air of anticipation in the room, an intellectual frisson slightly disturbed by the man next to us, who is noisily unveiling a huge foil pack of sandwiches that look worryingly like corned beef and piccalilli. Even more worryingly, he appears to be holding them out to Dad.

‘No, thank you,’ I say on Dad’s behalf. ‘You’re being offered someone’s picnic,’ I whisper to him.

‘No, thank you,’ he whispers back. The man shrugs and takes an enormous bite out of one of the sandwiches. He has an interesting face, I think, like a basset hound, from the side. He would be great to draw.

Finally, Lawrence P. Sullivan – a unit of a man in an immaculate suit – takes to the podium, welcomes us on this fine Thursday morning and begins to talk, in great detail, about modern architecture and the employment of the senses. Dad nods. He smiles. Mr Sullivan’s enthusiasm is palpable. You could reach out and take hold of his passion; it surrounds him like a chunky aura. I think about passion, about art; about my paintings. Am I passionate? Could I let my art become a proper passion, something I bring out to the light, like Dad said: show people, share with people? Or do I keep it as hidden as my heart?