It was just starting to dusken at the end of a damply green day. We were lying in the bath, lazily watching the woodsmoke and thrips swirling round the apple tree, occasionally reaching out for a jug of cold water from the bucket.

Other than our slooshings, the stream was all we could hear. I wondered how to describe it’s noise which was neither tinkle nor tumble, but something more hurried and brown.

With his head between the taps and his eyes closed, Rob thought it might be a battallion of millipedes marching in stillettoes, or the needle of an old record player limping round the disc in the dust. Or perhaps, a thousand girls going by in foil skirts.

When the heat got too much for our bones we walked woozy to the caravan across the garden, with unlaced boots and steaming skin. We poured drinks and wound up the radio to tune into the hundred metre final – we can only get Radio 5 from the spice jar shelf.

There was excitement in the stadium and Usain Bolt whizz-crackled in and out of reception, a rhythmic beat in the night.