‘We’re at the square now, in front of St Paul’s Church, Dad,’ I say. ‘It’s very busy.’

‘It doesn’t feel quite so hot,’ says Dad.

‘The sun’s gone behind a cloud.’

‘I can’t hear anyone performing.’

‘No, it must be between shows.’ We stop. I scour the square. ‘OK, I can see a spot for us.’

We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves; we want to blend in, if that’s ever possible. We head towards the fat ribbed columns of St Paul’s Church. We sit on the steps behind the ‘stage’ of the stone slabs; Dad stretches out his legs, places his cane parallel to them, I tuck mine underneath me, wrap the material of my dress around them. Adjust my sunglasses. A woman with loads of shopping bags plonks herself down next to Dad and gives him a warm smile he cannot see.

The sun pokes its head out from behind the cloud. A distant police siren wails. From his vantage point on the balustraded balcony of the Punch and Judy pub opposite, an early drinker holds a pint of beer aloft and gives a random whoop. I scan the crowd. A few people start chatting, gathering their things, making to move off … then there is a shout.

‘It’s OK, it’s OK, I got this!’

Heads turn. To our left, at the far end of the church front, there’s a man atop a unicycle, clinging to one of the stone pillars. His legs are paddling wildly; he’s clutching the pillar in hilarious fashion. Children in the audience start to point and laugh.

‘Don’t take photos now, for goodness’ sake!’ he tells a woman with her phone in the air, which elicits a laugh that ripples round the crowd. The sun is fully back out and the audience is up for fun.

‘What’s happening?’ asks Dad.

‘A man on a unicycle clutching on to a pillar pretending he’s terrified,’ the woman next to Dad tells him.

‘Ah.’ He smiles and nods. He really does like to feel the sun on him, I think. He is positively basking.

The performer is lurching, pretending to almost fall. He is grinning his head off and lapping up all the laughter. ‘OK, OK, I can do this!’ With a shriek he lets go of the pillar and launches off into a wide circuit of the performance space, holding one arm outstretched like a preposterous Shakespearean actor, before collapsing back on to the pillar with an exaggerated sigh of relief. He recovers himself, eagle-eyeing the crowd as he does so.

‘It’s OK, madam, I think you’ve mastered the selfie stick!’ he calls across to a woman pouting at herself in a magenta kaftan, who sheepishly puts her stick down.