I stand in front of the burgundy-red door of 7 Underwood Lane, Earls Court. Heat burns off the walls. The sky is a mindless blue, almost black. Before I get the chance to knock, our front door flies open and I’m hit with this: hair—shaved on the top and sides and, at the back, drawn up into a ponytail of beaded dreadlocks. Ears—pierced and run through with twisted ash-black bones. A scarlet kimono—silk, with black and white herons, gaping open, revealing a hairy chest, rib bones, a pot-belly and…

“Chrissakes, Gad!”

Gad bunches the kimono at his navel with a fist. “Pardon, chérie. Ça va?”

Unbelievable. Zero embarrassment. Nada. Zip. Rien.

Committed eco-warrior, Moroccan Frenchman and (to my profound and unceasing embarrassment) practicing nudist, Gad Moudnib. Aka the Hippie.

Welcome to stage two of my Brilliant Imploding Life.

A week with Frankie. A week with the Old Man. On and on. Ad nauseam.

“How bad was it?” the Hippie says, stepping aside (pronouncing “was it,” waz eet). By “it” he means the past few days with Frankie.

“Beautiful.”

“Ah bon? That horrible, huh?”

“Worse.”

“C’est la vie. Now you are here.”

I turn and look at him, throwing my satchel down on a couch. “You heard what happened, right?”

He flicks his hand and spits a plosive “whatever” sound, as if to suggest the whole school suspension thing is a storm in a teacup, entirely unworthy of his attention. He understands solidarity, I’ll say that for the Hippie.

He follows me into the kitchen.

“Where’s the Old Man?” I ask, flinging open the fridge door, enjoying the blast of cool air. I haul out the OJ. Down it straight from the carton.

“On the terrace,” the Hippie says. “Comme d’habitude.”

I find him in Downward Dog, arse in the air, face beetroot-red. I drop into one of two LA-style, retro plastic-strip garden chairs and sigh, long and deep.

“Darling,” the Old Man grunts. “Manageable week?” He glances up at me and switches from Downward Dog into Leg Raised.

Gad follows me out, commandeers the second chair and takes a sip from a glass of slug-green juice. He flips through the Sunday Times magazine on the table, crossing a leg over his knee. The kimono sluices open.

“Jesus, Gad. Clothes aren’t optional, you know.”

“Ana,” the Old Man wheezes. “Don’t be such a prude. A nude body is a glorious and natural thing.”

“Peeing is a natural thing, but you don’t see me squatting on the front lawn.”

Gad, to his credit, laughs.

We watch the Old Man power up through Warrior into Reverse Warrior, until finally he salutes us with Mountain Pose. We clap. Me ironically. Gad with gusto.

“How’s your mother?” the Old Man says, towelling his arms.

“No change.”

“Still a complete nightmare, then?”