That was the summer Therese stepped on the wasps’ nest and brought an end to our barefoot wanderings, when the sun shone every day and everybody commented upon it. Old ladies on park benches, fanning themselves with well-thumbed issues of Woman’s Own, would sigh, ‘Oh, isn’t it hot?’ And I, hungry for conversation, would sit tall on the wooden seat and smile as I agreed, eyes darting to see if they might say anything more. The heat was all anyone ever seemed to speak of, and I knew that when the weather changed we’d still be talking of the same thing, only then we’d be blowing at our hands and complaining of the cold.