“What do I do with this?” she said. “Stick it up my arse?”

Admittedly, the piece of driftwood I had given her had no narrative purpose and was probably a lame idea. A redundant prop, it was chucked into Dublin Bay.

Even so, I thought it was funny to hear one of pop music’s sweetest voices talk about arses.

We had walked from the hotel down the promenade looking for a place to shoot. Mother nature had provided a giant wind machine which was on full power, blowing a gale. Sinead hung on tight to the cast-iron post of the canopy.

For a moment I remembered kissing a school girlfriend to ‘Nothing Compares to You’, and also leaping around in my bedroom to ‘Mandinka’. After that quick reminiscence, I concentrated on the photographs.

Our accompanying journalist helped as a voice-controlled lighting stand, and we got the shots swiftly before we all froze to death.

Apart from the rejection of driftwood dildos, the day out was in perfect alignment: a stroll along a sunny promenade, a few photographs then a bowl of hot soup.

It was pea and ham.