When I was small, I was given an orange at a birthday-party. I carried it all the way home in my two hands, drunk on its colour and its fragrance, and Mother sliced it up so we children might each have a piece. Picture us all sitting around the nursery table, each with a slender sticky segment in our fists, cooing our delight. It was over so quickly. But what a glorious slice of orange mine was! What a brief glimpse of rapture! I thought of it, you know, the first time John kissed me.