My first kite was a black garbage bag with strings. Not a red diamond crucifix made friendly with storybook bows – no. Jenny Porter’s mum made them for the school fete: cheap, replicable, repairable when the wind would inevitably claim one or a tree would claw at its face. Small slits in the plastic allowed the air            to vent making a pfffft sound as if the kite was just as careless as I was. Flight was only permitted on the flank of park by the sea – no powerlines. Electrocution sharks and perves were high on our risk list but there was joy in setting plastic storm clouds with their shocks of crepe-paper lightning against the sky.