MUM WORKING. Mum’s workplace is underground. It smells of dust, tobacco and old clothes, and it’s packed full of stuff from floor to ceiling. Mum has big golden scissors which she uses to cut cloth, and a velvet pillow covered with pins on her wrist. She has one long nail, which she uses to draw in the folds of the fabric precisely. A pen sticks out of her work bun.

No one’s allowed to touch Mum’s scissors. Mum hangs the scissors on a hook for the night.

That’s what Mum’s like at work.

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At last, the car turns into the avenue that leads to Extra Great Manor. I put an end to my thinking, draw a white line around the pieces of Mum. When I stop my thoughts like that, I can pick them up at a later point, from the same spot.

I love this straight, tree-lined lane. When you turn into it, you find an ancient road suddenly lying before you. A velvet curtain opens, the light changes, music strikes up. Violin music. The team of horses runs; the driver’s cloak billows. At the end stands Extra Great Manor.

Once a house is old enough, it stops looking man-made. It becomes alive, just like a mossy stone or a magnificent old tree. I imagine Extra Great Manor rising from the ground like a mushroom. First, a stone ring appeared. Then, a red figure rose from inside it and solidified to become walls. As time passed, wooden planks stretched and windows opened. A tower sprang up, and the roof grew stronger. Moss mottled the stone foundations, and the colour of the walls faded. That’s how Extra Great Manor was born.

Oaks and maples arch above us, forming a green tunnel, and the sand crunches. It’s a bit like we’re entering a magic wood or a time tunnel. Time splits, and the manor house appears ahead.

‘Dad, slow down.’

You need to arrive slowly at places like this. Before, gentlefolk came with their horses, and there was a stable especially for visitors.

Auntie’s sheep are standing on the lawn in front of the main steps, on the posh side. There are eight white ones and three black ones. When people call sheep black, they really mean brown, in the same way they say fish swim when what fish really do is dive.

Bruno is the tamest of Auntie’s sheep. Whenever I go over to him, he says baa and puts his head against my thigh. He can’t push me over yet; an adult sheep could knock me over with a single shove. Sheep have hard skulls.