Dad used to walk to Bakewell every Tuesday to see a man about his head. He’d set off about 2:30pm and he’d usually pick up a coffee on the way there. A half-choc mocha. Still refined. Manly but with an extra little something.

He’d put it in the calendar as “Barry – woodworking.” A little joke or his way of lying low. We didn’t know. But he always came back at 4:30pm a little lighter, a little looser, with a lemon meringue pie or something from Randall’s for us.