I’ve just finished another sketch of Dad, a small one. He is sleeping, his chin resting on his hand like The Thinker – he’s been asleep for the last couple of hours, on and off. I hope he won’t mind me capturing him off guard again. He shouldn’t do, really, since he recently gave his blessing to have six portraits of him hung in Perspectives, the gallery just around the corner from Old Street tube station. Kemp’s mate Col is holding an exhibition of local artists – all portraits – and mine were squeezed in, on the last available square of blank wall. A gallery! We went to the little party there, on the first night. Dad kept nudging me and calling me ‘The artist, Prue Alberta’. He said he was so proud that I have a talent that’s emerged after all these thousands of years. That he knew the job at the Custard Cream packing place would lead to bigger things. I poked him in the ribs and then we had a hug and he told me that he loved me, again, and I told him I love him. We’re saying it a lot these days – it’s like now we’ve said it once, we can’t stop.

Jack Templeton, Dad’s old mate, came to the party. Dad tracked him down – he still lives in the area, still dresses a bit like a dandy – and they’re getting on like a house on fire, after all these years. Jack’s also offered to ‘sit’ for me. I need a few more real faces for my portraits. More people in my life. Ryan might sit for me, too, if I ask him nicely. He’s been coming over a lot recently, to see Dad and talk architecture. To let Dad play all his old records to him. Sometimes they go out together, into London. Quite often Dad will go out on his own, now his ankle is better. He says he’s got his confidence back. He likes to go for walks – a ‘mosey about’, as he puts it. Sometimes he goes on errands. A couple of weeks ago he posted something for me.

‘I’ll do that,’ he said, when I was about to nip out. ‘What is it?’

‘Just something I’m returning to sender,’ I said. ‘Well, not quite that. But thanks, Dad.’