We went our separate ways. My heart was in turmoil: it felt as though it was swelling up and might burst at any moment. As I walked along the edge of the park, I found a blackbird on the ground, spread flat out and shivering all over. Its poor beak, like a yellow comma, was half open just as if it was pleading for help. It looked exactly how I felt inside, and I’m sure that’s what aroused my compassion and love of animals. When I picked up the little bird, it seemed as heavy as a ball of lead. I thought this was probably to do with density, because living things have to shrink into themselves when they’re suffering deeply, so that there is less room for unhappiness to take hold.

I ran home carrying the little parcel of life huddled inside its feathers. I wasn’t optimistic about the chances of saving the creature. I wasn’t much of an expert on blackbirds, but it looked like this one was in a lot of trouble.

Etienne and Marcel had been there for ages, but I still took the time to settle my patient into an old shoebox, lined with cotton wool, and offer him some breadcrumbs soaked in milk. But he wouldn’t eat anything. Etienne and Marcel had got their instruments ready in the workshop and while they were waiting for me they’d been talking to Dad, who was tinkering with the Panhard’s engine. He was giving them a detailed tour, holding a valve torsion bar, and he reminded me of a king with his sceptre. King of the Panhard, if you like.

“You’re here! What kept you? We were just about to leave!”

I used the blackbird as an excuse for being late, so then they teased me a bit on the subject of animals, reminding me of the frog debacle. I tried to get them involved in my life-saving enterprise by asking them why the creature wouldn’t eat.

“He’s probably on hunger strike,” said Etienne.

That made no sense at all to me.

I went to get my old electric guitar and tuned it as well as I could – mi la re sol ti mi, or something like that. Anyway, it wasn’t important.