Today’s plan to go to the beach is scuppered by wind and rain; the normal grey Armpit is back. One of the alternatives on offer is to drive into the nearest town to visit Prezzo; I say it will be my treat. Stepdad mutters gloomily that it is unlikely that Bernard will find something he likes on the menu there. Mum anxiously offers to go halves because it’s such an expensive restaurant. They are both serious. I worry that Prezzo means something different up north.

Prezzo is exactly the same up north, which makes today mostly a win.