I look down from my perch. He is sitting at the desk working on a painting that he will post to his son. This one, he told me, will complete the set on his bedroom wall. The image is adorable: a young duckling, fluffy, orange and cute.

He begins to talk to himself, as he tends to do throughout the day:

“Daddy, it’s the wrong colour” he squeaks in a high-pitched voice

“Aww, darlin’, shall Daddy make it blue?”

“No, I said last time it needs to be yellow”

“OK, darlin’, I’ll make sure it’s yellow for you”

“Alright, daddy”

He is sitting facing the five narrow panes that form our window. I look at his thin ginger hair, pitted skin and broken smile: the scars and dents; the sparse discoloured teeth. I watch as he uses yellow watercolour to delicately fill in the image that he has already drawn on the paper.

It’s a beautiful sight.