"Is that an accordion? He has an accordion?" Cloud says, under his breath, his forkful of savoury pancake stopping halfway to his mouth in a private moment of despair. It seemed to him to be far too early for accordions. Most times were far too early for accordions.

He waits until the tune is finished and claps in a way that is deliberately too slow.

"That's great," he says, raising his voice a little, "please don't do it again."