It was the morning of my grandfather’s funeral and I’d agreed to give the eulogy. My wife had recently given birth to twin girls, so my son and I were to make the trip up to my family home in Edinburgh to represent the expatriate London faction. Unfortunately, the funeral was being held the very morning that the first double episode of the new series of Twin Peaks premiered at 2am, in a cruel simulcast with the airing in the US at a more respectable hour.

I hadn’t intended to stay up all night before my grandfather’s funeral. But I did. And now I had a gruelling five-hour train journey with my three-year-old son to look forward to.

‘Why did they only show the TV show in the middle of the night?’ he asked on the bus to the station.

‘They didn’t,’ I said. ‘I could’ve watched it tomorrow.’

‘What was the show?’

I sighed and rubbed my eyes. My head was pounding and my brain shuddered at the prospect of five hours of questions that would be perfectly adorable in any other scenario. ‘It’s a show that used to be on TV a long time ago. Now it’s back on TV.’

‘What happens in it?’

‘There’s a puzzle to solve in a small town. So a detective called Dale Cooper solves it. But there’s this even bigger puzzle.’

‘Then what happens?’

‘This is our stop,’ I said. ‘Hold on to the rail.’

He ...