I try to remember the detail he liked when I described the dragonfly. I try to be inventive, creative for him.

‘There’s a mass of people,’ I say, ‘hundreds of them, all ages. There’s a lot of backpacks, shorts, vest tops, sandals. Some sunburnt shoulders. There’s a man on rainbow roller-blades coming towards us. He’s wearing a ginger wig and a huge pair of comedy headphones.’ Surprisingly, the man high-fives me as he sails past; I actually slap my hand with his, then wipe it down my dress. ‘There’s a couple kissing outside a shop – why’s everybody kissing all the time?’ I move on – I don’t want Dad banging on about love and romance again. ‘A homeless woman asleep in a sunny doorway, inside a brown sleeping bag.’ Poor lady, I think. I wonder what her story is. ‘Just to our right is a man painted silver wearing a bowler hat and carrying a briefcase. He looks like he’s running, late to work or something – one arm in front, one arm behind, one leg forward. He’s really good. People are trying to make him laugh but he’s not budging.’

‘Remind me what a briefcase looks like,’ says Dad.

‘Oh, well, it’s rectangular. It has a handle on the top and a fold-over flap with a gold clasp on it.’

‘Yes, yes,’ says Dad, his face creasing in concentration. ‘Thank you. You’re beginning to really see things, Prue.’

‘Am I?’ I answer.

‘Yes. Open your eyes, cucciolo. Open your eyes and see what’s out there.’

‘Is this about men again?’ I ask wearily. I won’t think about Kemp, I just won’t; I’ve done enough of that over the past few days. The new, weather-beaten, bearded Kemp; battered and chiselled by all the sun and wind and rain that has fallen on him since I last saw his amazing face. I have pushed him from me. I have shoved him inside that hollowness in my soul and plonked a paper bag over his head. And Dad has called me cucciolo – it means pup, or cub, or baby animal in Italian. A term of endearment. I may sound weary, but actually I am delighted.

‘Possibly,’ says Dad.

I nudge into him a little, kiss my shoulder against his. ‘I’ll try,’ I say, just to humour him.

‘Good.’

Ahead of us is the covered market, now a series of small shops. We came here quite a lot as kids. Before and after Dad went blind. The guide dogs always created quite a flurry. At the market we turn right and head for the grey stone square in front of St Paul’s Church. People are lounging on the shallow steps, standing in clusters, shielding their eyes from the sun, guzzling from bottles of water, laughing and enjoying the afternoon. Crossing the square. Are we in a lull between street performers? There’s always something going on here.