The story is so familiar that I now remember the event from my mother’s perspective: my mind’s eye sees, framed in the doorway, an old wardrobe worthy of Narnia, leaning against the bed, which has interrupted its fall. I understand that the boy – me, or my son – is inside. But Professor Kirke built his wardrobe to last – it was sturdy, like its creator’s faith – and a mere child’s hiding inside could never have caused such a fall. As a child, I found everything exciting. My eyes then saw every cupboard as an opportunity, but I was no assessor of stability.