She is seven years old, sitting on a chair made from a reclaimed pallet, lost in her own thoughts.
    ‘Are you OK?’ he asks. ‘Do you like this place?’
    She looks up, at him, and then around at the curved wooden walls, the cupboards made from driftwood, the brass logburner, the makeshift kitchen. She nods and says she does like it, yes, but it is not for her.
    ‘Not for you?’
    ‘It's not for poor people.’
    He doesn't know what to say and so he asks, ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘It's cool,’ she says. ‘Cool places aren't for poor people.’
    It breaks his heart. Not just her words but her absolute acceptance of their truth.