‘Poppycock, Mola,’ corrects Susan. ‘And why dangerous? It’s just harmless, surely? I mean, it can’t possibly work.’

‘This is just a short cut. A very bad short cut. Like … like eating sweeties instead of proper food.’

I say nothing. If what Mola just said is true, then I have been munching my way through a family pack of Haribos. Every night. While I am asleep.

Mola continues, an air of righteousness settling over her. She closes one eye and turns the other to Susan, raising a single finger, palm out. Although she addresses her granddaughter, I think this is meant for me.

‘I have heard of these toys. Pah! They will mess with your head.’

That phrase again! I am surprised. ‘You’ve heard of these Dreamy-thingies?’ Clever, Malky, I think. Don’t sound too familiar with them.

‘Course I have. Not that one exactly, but others. People always look for a quick solution. They want to control everything. “Control your dreams,” he says. Meditation is all about giving up control. Just be, you know? It takes time and patience to be good at it. But who has time and patience these days, huh? You want everything now-now-now. Click, I want it now! Click, same-day-delivery!’

‘Well …’ says Susan, ‘it may not be …’

‘Don’t interrupt, Tenzin. Thing is, when you eat only sweeties, your teeth fall out, you get fat and you die an early death. You understand? Stop trying to control everything. Just let it be. You know – like the Beatles song?’

To my astonishment, she starts singing Mam’s bedtime song: ‘Let it be, let it be … You understand?’

Susan gasps. ‘That’s the song Mr McKinley just mentioned!’

Mola’s not listening. ‘I’m talking to him. Dream-boy over there. He knows, don’t you! You with me?’

‘Yes, Mola,’ I lie. I haven’t got a clue what she’s on about, and I’m still a bit freaked out at hearing Mam’s song warbled by Mola.

Susan is showing me to the door, and she’s wincing a little. ‘Sorry about Mola. She gets a bit … intense sometimes.’

I nod. ‘Why does she call you by your last name?’

Susan is puzzled for a moment, then her face clears. ‘Oh! Tenzin! That is only my last name in English. It is my first name in Tibetan.’

‘That’s odd,’ I say, and she smiles.

‘Not really. My daddy wanted me to have an English name as well, so he chose Susan and then added my first name to make a surname because in Tibet they don’t really do names in the same way as you do.’ She points to a picture of an elderly man with spectacles and a bald head, in a silver frame on the wall of the little entrance lobby. He has the look of a government minister, or head teacher, except he’s wearing dark red robes. ‘I am named after this man. Dalai Lama,’ she says.