‘Yes, but it means ten o’clock in the morning,’ I explain, trying to sound in control of the situation and not at all frazzled.

‘We can’t wait here all night!’ Izzy exclaims, looking up at me in alarm.

‘Why not?’ Ludo wants to know.

Oh, sure, we could nip home and fetch three sleeping bags and come back and lie here on the pavement all night, lined up, the way people used to sleep in tube stations when there was an air raid on, only without a tube station, or a war.

‘Because we can’t,’ I say firmly, grabbing both of them by the hands and marching onwards, ignoring his witterings and stopping only to google and then call a local locksmith along the way. Back home, the three of us sit, mournfully, waiting for him to appear and let us in. If it were just Izzy and me, I’d call Penny or Jules and see if we could go round to either of their places, and wait there – but I’m not prepared to inflict our houseguest on either of them.

Ninety minutes later, when we all stomp into the house, Ludo marches across the kitchen to the glass recycling box and announces, ‘You drink an awful lot of wine.’

Friday, August 23

Day ninety-seven of Ludo. At least, it feels like it. I’m starting to wonder if Chrissie, Tim and the baby are really still at the hospital, or have snuck off for a little holiday – a ‘babymoon’ – without Ludo wrecking their fun. Who could blame them, really? Maybe they’re planning to never come back? I’d probably do that, if I were them. I can’t imagine Ludo taking well to Chrissie trying to establish breastfeeding (although apparently he himself was a keen boob-guzzler until the age of four, and would only be persuaded to stop when Chrissie fibbed that there was ‘no milk left’, that it was ‘all gone’. Although she never says no, she’s clearly not above lying through her teeth when desperation strikes).

I’m also a little suspicious of Tim’s father’s illness. Do people really contract dysentery on the Costa del Sol? My energies are flagging, and Ludo has already mooted the possibility of pancakes again. To ward him off, I decide to throw together whatever I can find in the fridge and present it to the kids as a picnic. As the days have gone on, they have at least tolerated each other, playing the odd muted game, watching cartoons together, inhabiting the same room without incident. On the rare occasions that Izzy has grumbled about him being here, I’ve explained that it’s hard for Ludo, his parents disappearing like that, and this monumental change about to happen in his life.

‘I want to have it outside,’ he announces.

‘Yes, that’s what I mean,’ I say. ‘A picnic in the garden. It’s a lovely evening for it.’