We are nowhere. Or rather, we are somewhere beyond reach, floating above an ocean. The woman next to me has contorted herself on the seat and her feet are pushing into my thigh. We are flying backwards in time, and I know from the boarding pass that when we land, whenever that is, it will be again, 12.00 a.m.

A tough guy who harnessed little you to the belt attached to a long rope, as you learnt to swim in the deep water alone, while he, with zinc-creamed lips and tough-man face, walked along the curved platform way, way above, chatting to a mate and yelling down swimming instructions to you way, way below – kick yer legs/stretch yer arms. On smelly low-tide mornings you felt all alone in your speedo swimsuit.

Two rocks clink onto the far side of the balcony. I once thought children were throwing these rocks off the building’s rooftop, secretly hoping to disturb someone they couldn’t see, far below them. But I’ve decided that the rocks blow off the higher, set-back balconies and then onto ours. For months I’ve been stacking them in a small teacup, thinking I’ll ride the elevator up and return them to their original garden beds – if I can work out which they are.