‘Couldn’t stand it in the office any longer. Don’t forget most of my shop are true-blue Tories. They think the election of a Labour government will see their bonuses taxed at 99 per cent.’

‘If only that were true,’ says Dad.

‘Shoosh, Bernard. Charles, your father-in-law is only having his little joke. He doesn’t really mean that.’

‘Yes he does, Grandma, you know he does,’ says worldly-wise Sam. ‘Everyone knows that Grandpa hates bankers.’

There’s a moment’s painful silence and then Charles roars with laughter: ‘You little tyke. I hate bankers too. But if I wasn’t one, how would we pay for your Nintendo games?’

We move to the sitting room. When I get a moment, I am compelled to ask Charles, ‘How’s my old friend Robin Muller?’

Charles shrugs. ‘Hyperactive as ever. There is a big deal in process.’

‘The Media Corp takeover of Capital?’

He shoots me a stern look. ‘Give it a rest Gil. This is a family night, right?’

‘Yeah. Sorry. Force of habit.’

‘The bed is made up,’ Charles says to Mum and Dad who haven’t brought much with them, presumably because this is home from home. I feel jealous.

‘I don’t know how late I’ll want to stay up,’ says Dad.

‘Don’t lie, Bernard,’ says Mum. ‘You know you’ll be the last one to go to bed.’

‘Can we stay up? Please!’ says Luke.

‘It’s school tomorrow, darling,’ Mum reminds him.

‘Let’s see how tired you are,’ says Charles.

Dad looks at Sam. ‘The last time Labour won an election was in 1974. Can you believe that? Your Uncle Gil and I stayed up to watch it. Gil, I think you were only about twelve or thirteen at the time. You were desperate to watch the results. And you struggled so hard to keep your eyes open, but eventually I had to carry you into your bed. Do you remember any of that?’

I sort of do. What I mostly remember, though, are the preceding days, when as a pipsqueak young teenager – I was a Young Socialist – I would knock on doors canvassing for Labour. I’d learned the patter from Dad. ‘Can we count on your vote, madam?’ I would say. What the middle-class ladies of Belsize Park made of the descant sing-song pleadings of a Jewish campaigner, in a purple suedette jacket and red loons, goodness only knows.

Dad jolts me back. ‘I began to wonder whether I’d live long enough to see another Labour government. Though I’m not sure Johnny Todd is really one of us.’

‘He’s not as bad as you think Dad. Honestly.’ I tell him about my encounter with Todd at the Bermondsey housing estate and what drives him. ‘For what it’s worth, he worships you. He quoted your book.’