Semi-solitary in the courtyard of our holiday cottage, I put my book down for a moment to look up at High Wheeldon. My hair is like a clown's, my oversized yellow hiking boots are like a clown's; you might visualise the paraphernalia, car collapsing around me, squirty flower. There is a woman sitting reading in the next courtyard along, the mother of the little girl my daughter has made friends with. I have spoken with her, but not very much.

A gust of wind makes the pages of my book flicker open on the table and one of my various bookmarks separates and escapes over the low partitioning stone wall between the courtyards.

Over the years, my children have prolifically written messages on small scraps of paper, or drawn pictures, and not having the heart to dispose of them, I tend to pool together all those of a period coinciding with my allegiance to a particular book, using the burgeoning wad to mark my progress.

I instantly wonder which herald has been blown over the wall, now adhering to the ankle of the woman reading quietly, entreating her to glance down. I hope it is just a drawing and not the message, which I know to be among them, left on my pillow several weeks ago (I have been reading this novel since then) by my daughter, which states "I Love You."