You open your eyes, and for a few seconds the possibilities swirl around you: the cool white ceiling of a student bedroom; strains of late-night reggae wafting up a childhood staircase; the smell of tar and rubbish baking in the Damascus sun.

Then a baby cries and you are brought back to the patch of yellow fabric coming into focus a few inches from your face.

You are on a sofa in South London on Saturday morning, and it is your child crying.

This is now.