Dad looks amused and says, ‘Go on then, Prue,’ and, like I’m hypnotized – because I really don’t want to do this – I stand up, cross the ancient paving stones and turn to face Salvi Russo, the street performer. The sun has disappeared completely now – the sky a smattered grey and white lid above me. There’s a breeze playing with the hem of my skirt. I wish my fringe was four inches longer.

‘Where are you from?’ Salvi is twinkling all over the place. His smile lights up his face, like it did in his profile photo. I do declare he is charisma on a unicycle.

‘Chalk Farm.’

He grins. ‘Ah, you have travelled far, my friend … Who are you here with?’

‘My dad,’ I say. God, I sound about twelve.

‘The blind guy!’ shouts out Dad, waving his cane in the air, and I am both astonished and mortified. What is he doing? Why is he bringing attention to himself like this? People are laughing and smiling at him. The woman with the shopping bags is in raptures.

‘Nice to see you, sir!’ calls back Salvi.

‘Can’t say the same!’ Dad shouts back. Seriously, has a bit of sun turned the man into a deranged wise-cracker?

Salvi grins. ‘Come a bit closer,’ he says to me. Reluctantly I take four steps forward. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Prue,’ I say. ‘Prudence.’

‘Well, you’re far too sensible for this, then,’ he says. Only a few people laugh. Only a few know what ‘prudence’ means, I bet, and even fewer would remember the ‘Dear Prudence’ of The Beatles, the song my not-so-dear-departed mother named me after. ‘Prue. Nice name,’ he considers. ‘OK, Prue, I need your help. I want you to throw those three clubs up to me in turn.’ In front of me, in the centre of the circle of people, are three juggler’s clubs: orange and white in wide stripes.

‘Club number one, please. Throw it to me.’

I walk towards the nearest club and go to pick it up.

‘No, club number one, I said. That’s club number three.’ The crowd laughs: of course, they are all identical.

I pick up the club and throw it, badly. He catches it. There’s a whoop from the crowd.

‘Club number two, please.’

I pick one up. ‘This one?’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘Are you sure?’

It’s his turn to laugh. ‘Yes, Prue.’

The way he says my name makes me feel something quite unsuitable for my forty-eight years. I throw the club; he catches it and juggles the pair of them, in front of him, to a twirling rhythm. The crowd start to clap in time.

‘Club number three.’