I was 5 years old and wasn't too fond of school and was always glad when 'home time' came. I remember leaving the school gates and walking between my Mum and the tall closely clipped privet hedge that bordered the school playground and being totally amazed at the hundreds of brightly coloured caterpillars that made it their home.
Bejewelled, arched, eating machines, with soft hairs covering their wiggly bodies, I was fascinated. I'd pick up the fat caterpillars and place them on my arm, stroking their furry little backs with one finger, I giggled with glee.
As I walked along the hedgerow with my caterpillar jewellery, I would pick the small bright green privet leaves and fold them between my fingers. I loved the feeling of the 'snap' as they broke in two and I carried on with my green origami until the broken leaves could fold no more. Before the hedgerow ended I would carefully replace my caterpillars and gather leaves to snap on the journey home.
Isn't it funny that some memories are completely forgotten, locked away until they are triggered by some random thing - a picture, a sound, a smell and there it is - complete, untainted, fresh. Still existing in its little time capsule, carefully tucked away somewhere beneath the surface.