There’s a small cardboard box that comes with me. The size of one of those cubed tissue boxes that you get in the supermarket.

You’ll step in from the darkness, through the lancet double doors, in your black patent shoes and red velvet dress underneath your winter coat, the tips of your fingers tingling.

I’m spinning round and around in a playpark five minutes from my house. I’m on an old roundabout, you know the ones made from wood with big slatted skirts and a ledge around the bottom to push off from.

When a caterpillar is born, it has everything it needs to become a butterfly. Information stored within its cells, waiting to become unlocked.