We both fall silent. I gaze out over the London skyline, mesmerized by the top of the Shard catching the sun, like King Arthur’s sword rising from the lake. I chomp noisily on my Fruit Polo, splintering it with my teeth, which I know will infuriate Dad as he likes to make his last, but he is pretending not to notice. The woman on the blanket flops on to her front again and fiddles with the dial on her radio, turning up the volume just enough so we get to endure Heart FM, and songs from the charts and a quiz where people have to guess sound effects. People come and people go, gathering up their belongings or plonking them down to create a little place for themselves, on this grassy hill that overlooks the whole of the city.

We sit for another forty-five minutes then we make our way back down, and home.

CHAPTER 10

It’s a truth occasionally acknowledged that a father and a daughter who haven’t been out of the house for years, or even much spoken to each other in the last thirty, will not necessarily re-bond over mung bean and Madagascan vanilla pod vegan gluten-free ice-cream.

‘It’s artisan, Dad,’ I say. It’s the following Monday and we’re at Little Venice, place number two on Dad’s London list. We’ve been here for what feels like days, although it’s only 2 p.m. and we left the flat at twelve.

‘It’s revolting,’ says Dad.

‘Keep your voice down.’ The hipster with the enormous beard who just sold it to us from a hatch cut out of a tiny tin caravan can probably still hear us.

‘What would Nonna and Papa say at such an aberration?’ complains Dad, as we walk away. ‘Even the cone is inedible.’

‘They would say it’s not real ice cream,’ I say. ‘They would say, “Come to Papa Alberta’s if you wanta da real ice cream!”’

‘Yes, they would – but not in that terrible accent. And I asked for vanilla; heaven knows what this junk is!’

‘It’s not junk. It’s the opposite of junk. It’s super-healthy.’

‘It’s junk,’ says Dad. ‘Let me know when we pass a bloody bin.’