Clearly my anxiety over the move to Avarna had created a recurring nightmare composed of random memories. Once I felt settled I was sure it would go away. I should spend more time exploring the village, I thought. I’m sure there were interesting little corners I hadn’t yet discovered. Places like that café and the garden by the river, and that cute little clothes shop. It looked expensive but maybe I’d call in anyway… Eventually, after the distraction of planning my tour of the village, my brain shut down and I fell into a welcome dream-free sleep.

The next morning there was a gorgeous blue sky and I felt a lot better. But we’d run out of milk so I couldn’t have cereal. Instead of being annoyed I decided it was fate; I’d wander into the village to get some milk and explore a bit more.

As I walked into the local shop I heard a loud smack on the window. A fly swatter hit the windowpane with brutal force. I watched as the doomed wasp fell on to the dusty sill, its legs flickering for a moment before it died. The shop owner, Mary Reynolds, stood triumphantly, clasping the blue swatter.

‘The little feckers come out earlier every year,’ she said as she scooped the tiny corpse into a tissue and dumped it in the bin behind the counter. ‘How are you, Jacki? Are you keeping well?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, thanks,’ I said, trying to be cheerful and heading for the fridge.

Mary knew all of Avarna’s residents by name and there was little that happened in the village that she didn’t find out about. The first time I’d gone into her shop was only for chewing gum, yet she’d kept me chatting for twenty minutes. She found out my name, my age, that my mum, Rachel, was the new primary school teacher starting in September, that I’d just done my Junior Cert. exams and that I didn’t have a boyfriend. In return I was subjected to her son Nick’s entire life story. He was a year older than me, had just finished transition year, was allergic to tomatoes and played electric guitar.