It’s eight minutes past seven. She’s late. I pull out my phone to check for missed calls. Nothing. I look around anxiously between the showers of street light, not quite sure what to do. In my brain I thumb through all the things that could have gone wrong. Oversleeping, kidnapping, death, all three?

At thirteen minutes past seven I am jolted out of my daydream by the collective rustle of a flock of lapwings all taking flight at once. The streetlamps flicker off and the sun bounces into the sky, dishevelled and sweating. “Oops” she pants.