The sun hits my face at 8. If I hold my shoulder near my ear I can block it out. I can think only of a glass of water which tells me that the suckling pig came too late to soak up the champagne. Noonie and I tell the story of a procession of whole pigs - complete with faces - carried over the shoulders of Chinese men seen through a doorway while we ate. The sang choy bow runs to our elbows and the waiter is not keen to understand my request for a pink lemonade. We discuss Shanghai and the dishwater soup that everyone wants until they have it.

Today across the road there's a girl on a red swing tied from a tree, higher and higher until a man behind pulls her in. A woman in a vibrant vest, also red, is trailing through the cemetry behind her husband, and boys with bright green Burgerlicious boxes are heading to the park.

There's an orange and almond cake in the oven, friends on the way, and Arcade Fire. Every time you close your eyes. Now here's the sun. It's alright. Now here's the moon. It's alright.

Hamish chokes when he tries to swallow a whole snake. Maria holds him upside down from the waist, shakes him and sticks her fingers down his throat to dislodge it. For a moment we're crowded around, no one speaking, just the boy trying to get his breath back.