Sometimes I remember things with such immediacy and poignancy that it causes a brief physical reaction – my stomach churns and I catch my breath, as if I'm suffocating – caused by the intense mixture of pleasure at the memory and sorrow that the moment is gone.

And something I remember … more than 20 years ago, a holiday at the end of May, my wife was pregnant with our first child. On the last evening, while my wife was getting ready, I spent half an hour sitting on a bench under a tree near the guest house where we were staying. I smoked a cigarette, read my book (Romola by George Eliot) and looked out over the sea.

And the emotions that I felt then I remember now, as if they are tangible things that I can touch and feel. A sense of profound wellbeing and hope for the future; a still, breathless sensation that I encompassed the world and it encompassed me in a brief yet glorious moment of sharp, crystal-like and exquisite perfection.