‘I think I’ll do it again,’ he says, setting off on another circuit. ‘It’s good to re-cycle.’ There’s a groan and a laugh, a few claps. He goes one way, then he goes backwards, his feet spinning on the pedals. He skims close to us – very close – before he returns to the pillar again. For just a second he makes eye contact with me and I blush. He looks exactly like his photo.

‘What’s he doing now?’ asks Dad.

‘Hanging off the pillar and pretending to be in trouble,’ I say. There is more laughter, high-pitched giggling from children.

‘What does he look like?’

Hmm, what does this man, Salvi Russo – for I know it is the man I saw on poor Philippa Helens’ Facebook friends list – look like in the flesh? ‘Er … he’s not that tall, he’s a little stocky, he has a slight bald patch at the back of his head, big expressive eyes.’

‘Big expressive eyes …?’

‘Yes,’ I say distractedly. I’m staring at them right now. There’s a proper glint in them. ‘He looks cheeky,’ I conclude. Salvi is wearing black trousers, a clean white shirt and a waistcoat striped in purple and gold. He wears shoes that look like bowling shoes. I can see there’s already quite a lot of money in his collection hat, lots of notes, overlapping the edges. People can’t take their eyes off him and neither can I, which is quite surprising.

He comes away from the pillar now, forwards and backwards, pedalling like he is treading water. The sun has gone in again, behind a large cloud overlaid with grey.

‘I need someone to come and help,’ he calls out. ‘Who would like to come and help me?’

About twenty-five hands shoot up. There is laughter amongst the crowd as most of the hands belong to women. He swivels round on his unicycle.

‘You. There. The lady with the fringe and the long dress.’

Among all these people, he’s looking straight at me. I freeze. I look behind me, desperately seeking another fringe but there isn’t one. Oh God, I’m the lady with the fringe and the long dress.

‘Yes, you.’ Salvi is smiling above his waistcoat. He has a hand tucked in its front pocket, like Napoleon. One of his cheeky eyes gives me a wink.

I hesitantly point a reluctant finger at myself like a small child. Why me, for bloody hell’s sake? There are hundreds of people here!

‘Yes, you, with the terrified expression. Would you like to come up?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say.

‘Come on.’ It’s not a request but a command.