My sister Geraldine

Taken in a beer garden of a village pub in Stock. Geraldine, on the cusp of 40, will always be my ageless little sister.

My brother in law Mark, ever jolly and smiling, picks me up from Mum and Dad's house, leaving them to babysit for the first time ever, both Callum and Reuben. With the suburbs of London behind us, we set off into the Essex countryside. At Billericay station, commuters spill out with hot sweaty black and grey suits or pretty flirty dresses and breath a collective sigh of relief. Geraldine appears, my accomplished sister, flamenco guitarist, graphic designer by trade and dressage rider, in her role as commuter and I hug her after what has been a very long year apart. I'm back with my little sister.

The short drive to Stock fills me with delight, passing historic churches and pastoral life. The road is narrower now along Swan Lane and we pass through a gap in ancient woodland creating a canopy above our heads. And then, as if I can ever forget the impact this precise moment will have on me, the vista explodes with open, rolling fields, golden on this midsummer's evening, heavily scented with freshness, a solitary mature oak tree standing by the hedgerow, parcels of wool intertwined with barbed wire.

I enjoy the cottage garden of their Regency home, buzzing with bumble bees and bringing in a harvest of home grown vegetables and we set off back up Swan Lane on foot to The Bear. The local scrumpy perfectly compliments my mood: a slight fizz of excitement and anticipation. Geraldine knows everyone in the village and, stepping upstairs, she chats to the local folk band about the forthcoming Beer Festival and flamenco, which, in this company, is his unique forte. They treat me to what tastes like the best meal I've ever had: corn fed chicken and moules mariniere and Mark keeps getting the pints in though I insist on halfs.

We walk back. It's starting to get dark at about 10pm and I know Mum is now driving over to pick me up. And then from nowhere, something is running very fast towards me, right for me, about to gobble up my legs. Terror and horror hit me. Mark instinctively moves aside so I become the sole target of the beast, this huge, black and white badger that's being chased by a dog and, with limited eyesight is heading right for me. Just a few feet away, startled not only by the dog now but my screams, the badger takes an abrupt turn into the hedgerow. We hear the scurrying and the owner grabs the dog, just in time to let the badger escape.

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