I was going to start with the plane crash because that’s how come I met Jennifer. But you need to know about my hands first.

I was born with disaster areas for hands. My fingers had these folds of flesh between them that looked like the inside of an umbrella when it’s closed up. They could get really clogged with dirt if I didn’t scrub them properly every night with a scrubbing brush. It was Doc Morrison who told me I had to do that. Mum took me to see him when I was five. Not about my hands; I think I had mumps or something. But Doc Morrison noticed the hands. He picked them up as if they were CDs and turned them over and over. That moment, with this doc frowning and staring, staring and frowning, was when I first started to feel bad about them.

Mum said, ‘Oh, we’ve been through that. No one can find anything wrong.’ She meant, after I was born I’d been taken to see loads of doctors and hospitals about my hands and no one had a clue why they were like they were. But it didn’t matter because they weren’t doing any harm to anyone.

Doc Morrison said, 'I can’t say I’ve seen anything quite like it. On the other hand - ha! ha! no pun intended - if they function normally -’

Mum said, ‘He doesn’t seem to have any trouble.’ And she smiled at me.

Doc Morrison said, ‘There’s a lot to be said for leaving well alone. Just make sure he keeps them clean. A good scrub between the fingers every night. Otherwise there could be a hygiene problem.’

This is how we thought of my hands, me and my mum and dad. As things to be scrubbed. The only time they were mentioned was when Mum reminded me each night to clean them properly. Dad never talked about them even once. But I would catch him staring at them; when I reached out to grab the marg, for instance.

Actually he did mention them once, or nearly mention them. I had this nervous habit of stretching my fingers apart. The skin in between would sort of rustle as it stretched. I can tell you what it sounded like because once I heard the almost identical sound. It sounded like dry leaves swirling around in a hallway when someone opens the front door. It was quite loud, and it used to drive Dad nuts. Usually, when I did it, he would just go still and stare at me until I had to look away. Once he exploded. ‘For God’s sake stop that.’

‘Stop what?’ I said.

He exploded again. He thought I was being a smart-arse but I wasn’t. I just didn’t know what else to say.

‘You know what,’ he said. ‘Otherwise I’ll make you wear gloves. If I can find a pair that’s big enough.’

I stopped stretching my fingers apart when I was around Dad.