Saturday June 9th 1984 was an arrestingly beautiful day in Ireland. Scudding clouds, lots of sun and azure skies – called bleu celeste, someone told me. We were in Donegal, in the north of the island, in a landscape so magnificent it could make you catch your breath.

Just after 2pm on that afternoon my father turned the key in his Mercedes. The car was new, the engine purred quietly, you could hardly feel a vibration. My older brother had left a tape in the deck, which started instantly: Heaven 17, singing Come Live With Me. Not bad, but not exactly my favorite either.
I remember it was a Saturday, I remember everything about that day, I’ll never have to look it up; but of course I googled it anyway - in Florida, a world away, Donald Duck celebrated his 50th birthday at Disneyland. OK, then. I guess there wasn’t much going on anywhere.

The thing I remember clearly is that my father was in a fierce mood for some reason. His face was a mask of irritation. I had no idea why. Well actually, that’s not true – I did have some idea, but it was quite unpleasant to think about, so I repressed it, or I tried.