There was a copy of Angela Carter’s The Company of Wolves in the bookshelf by my bed. I told you once I’d first read it when I was thirteen. It’s the sort of story that changes you, especially at that age. You know how you are at thirteen—every casual, brief mention of sex makes you hot in the face, and hot in that secret hollow you’ve only just become aware of. It’s kind of sad, isn’t it, to think what fairy tales are really about—boys and girls and sex; but isn’t that what it’s always about, after you turn thirteen?