Mum called the Johnsons tree-huggers and hippies. I didn’t know what that meant, but hugging a tree seemed like a rather nice thing to do, and Mrs Johnson was a seriously interesting person. She knew so many things. She was a very unusual adult because she spent a lot of time playing with us, or setting up interesting activities for us, and looked carefully at all the things we made. I often bossed her children, and any of the other local kids visiting, into participating in a play I would make up, and she would sit on an old metal seat Mr Johnson found in the tip and watch the play all the way through and then clap when we finished. She would then tell me what she had liked about the story, and often encouraged me to write the words down, which I wasn’t that keen to do because I was better at just directing the kids to say what I needed at the time.

But best of all, she let me help with looking after the animals. I loved, loved, loved sitting in the guinea-pig enclosure with her, and one day she let me name one of the latest litter. She taught me that the Latin name for guinea pig was Cavia porcellus, and that Mum was right in a way when she called them rats because they are not pigs but rodents, although I decided not to tell Mum about that. Apparently they used to be worshipped by people in a place called Peru, and some people believed they could cure diseases. She also mentioned that there were people in the world who ate them, but I think it would have been better if she hadn’t shared that bit with me.

At first I wanted to name a little black and white one, but she gave that to her oldest girl River. I resented this because River didn’t care that much for animals, and I knew she wouldn’t spend time with the cute black and whitey, which she called Smudge. I was a bit jealous of that name though, because I had to admit it was quite good, and generally speaking I am the one who is excellent at making up names for things. Mrs Johnson’s other daughter, Sunshine, was just three and didn’t care too much about which guinea pig she named, so Mrs Johnson let me have the second choice. I pointed to a dear little baby that was mainly white but with coffee-coloured polka dots. I named her Sixpence, and I instantly loved her very much. When Mrs Johnson wasn’t too busy, she let me sit on her metal chair in the enclosure, and I nursed Sixpence and stroked her and fed her greens.

One day, Mrs Johnson had said about the most wonderful thing I had ever heard. She told me that if my mum and dad gave permission, I could have Sixpence as my very own as soon as my dad made a safe enclosure in our garden. I was so excited I ran straight home and nearly knocked Mum over when I hurtled into the kitchen with the news. Her answer was a very firm no.