This time last year she’d been at the sea with her mother. Sitting on a low earth cliff overlooking abandoned brown, tide-washed sands in Norfolk, watching the lady slowly remove leather shoes and holey tights (‘religious’ they called them), before running abandonedly into the lapping small grey waves. Her heart dripped with honey-coloured love for this woman. After jumping awkwardly over a few white horses (born with displaced hips, her mother always moved uncomfortably – except on the ballroom dancefloor where she captivated with graceful deliberate drifting), the older lady walked slowly away along the beach, tights left in a wet sandy bundle as a necessary, temporary testament to a carefree adventure: the tights were needed since her oozing footprints quickly refilled with soaking ochre sediment, erasing evidence of a grace-filled woman’s momentary presence there.