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I'd known Phillipa for years, ever since we'd been 5 years old we'd been neighbours. Her parents had moved into the massive farmhouse that bordered our remote 10 acre smallholding. I still remember the first time I met her, both of us hiding behind our respective mother's legs as the grown-ups made their introductions - eying each other with the suspicion that unaccustomed kids have for each other. She looked very similar to me (we've been mistaken for sisters since) but with long blonde hair as opposed to my uncontrollable red mop. Our parents hit it off immediately - just as well really as there were few other people with a half hour's drive. We took a little longer to get on. . .

I admit I was jealous of her. Jealousy has to be one the prime emotions of kids! And I had it spades for little princess Phillipa. My mother and father had bought our small cottage in the Highlands to get away from the riggers of city life - they couldn't stand the noise, bustle and pollution. It was all before I was born, but they'd told me countless times how lucky I was to grow up with a huge garden (I had a whole field my Dad gave me to play in), no risk of getting run over and a good dose of natural germs with no smog - Mum was a strong believer in building an immune system, no anti-bacterials in our home. But we were far from rich. Both my parents had quit their well paid city jobs to escape here, investing everything they had and although they made a bit of money from their organic fruit and veg and Dad from his freelance writing, we were never flush - no danger I would be spoilt.

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