Me, six, small, swinging from a tree in a mellow English garden. Our garden. Sunset light doing its cliched glowing thing between the apple branches, me with blonde plaits and red gingham and black T bar shoes (remember them?). And something crawls along under my feet, something I'm terrified of in later life, something I can't even write down the name of, and I leap straight up in the air
and hit my head on the top of the bed, which wakes me up. No. No plot. Just infant terror.
