Heathrow teemed with people. Our flight was at just after 1 p.m., getting into Perth at 1 p.m. the following day, but I couldn’t figure out if that was 1 p.m. tomorrow UK time, or Australian time. Dad always used to say on holiday: ‘Is it today, tomorrow, or yesterday?’ If the flight was nineteen hours and Perth was eight hours ahead … then that must mean …

‘G’day, mate!’

Patrick appeared before me. He was wearing a hat with corks dangling all around off the brim, and carrying a stuffed kangaroo.

‘Sheila, hold this so I can throw another shrimp on the barbie.’

I took the kangaroo from him. People were staring as they passed – tanned limbs walking to the exit on their way back from vacation, and paler ones headed towards check-in. My mouth was agape. Did I love that he’d showed up this way, or was I mortified? He’d certainly fully embraced the theme. He must have been able to tell that I was taking a beat to process his demonstrable enthusiasm because his face fell a tiny bit.

‘Is the accent too much?’ he said, using his normal voice. I allowed myself to soften – he was cute when he was checking where the line was.

‘I’m afraid so,’ I replied, solemnly but with flickering eyes. ‘I’m pretty sure that you doing the pretend Home and Away accent is as annoying as people doing the posh English accent and saying things about five o’clock afternoon tea with the Queen. Sorry.’

He kept a straight face and volleyed back: ‘I normally take my tea with Lizzie at four thirty, actually.’

I jutted my chin at the monstrosity on his head. ‘Did you buy the hat especially?’

‘Will you think less of me if I did?’

I kept po-faced in response, the pair of us in a comedic stand-off of who would break first. I did actually want him to take it off, but I had to admit it was nice that he was so keen, and also apparently oblivious to the reactions of everyone around us. He only wanted to make me smile, and didn’t mind being a plonker to do it. I pulled the hat off his head and tugged it onto my own, adopting a grin and giving him a wave of jazz hands.

‘Strewth! You look a million bucks!’ he exclaimed, the accent returning.

‘The hat can stay,’ I replied, wagging a finger at him. ‘But the accent has to go.’

‘Right you are, ma’am,’ he replied in his normal voice, understanding that I meant it. He clapped his hands together and looked around the hall. ‘Okay then. So. We’re going to Australia.’

‘Apparently. But if you want to chicken out …’

‘Yeah, good prompt actually. Thanks for the exit opportunity.’ He pretended to walk away, leaving his suitcase by my side but swishing his arms like a Swiss marching guard.