The thing I remember most about my fifth birthday is the dress I wore. In fact it is the only thing I remember. I don’t recall whether I had a party in the garden filled with friends, or bouquets of balloons or a cake with creamy icing and five flickering candles. I can’t even call to mind a heap of sparkling presents tied up with bright ribbon. Did I get a shiny new bike with stabilisers and a bell, which I sped up and down the street on every day that summer? Or a new Barbie with a baby pink dress and soft blonde curls? Or a doll’s house crammed with miniature furniture in every room? I don’t remember. But I remember the dress I wore.

When I woke up that morning I knew instantly it was my birthday. The previous night, Mummy had draped my new dress over the back of the chair and there it was still, the fabric flowing down to the floor, the soft silk rouged with huge roses. I dangled my legs over the side of the bed and leapt down onto the swirling carpet. Reaching across to the chair, I stroked the dress and cautiously fingered the delicate lace collar.

In the shop, I had known instantly that this was the dress I wanted. I remember as if it were yesterday first glimpsing the bold fabric. All the other dresses had been wrong in some way: scratchy material, garish colours, old-fashioned styles. But this one had been perfect.

I tore off my pajamas and pulled the dress over my head. It flowed down my skin and the skirt swished luxuriously around my legs. I dragged the white socks onto my feet, one at a time, and crammed them into the patent black shoes sitting next to the chair. My fingers fumbled as I clumsily buckled the shoes and stood up straight to admire my reflection in the full length mirror. The door opened and Mummy’s face appeared. ‘Goodness me! Don’t you look beautiful, birthday girl!’ she cried. ‘My little girl all grown up. Let’s go downstairs and show Daddy.’ She smoothed my ruffled hair and taking my hand led me out of the bedroom and down the stairs.