Hope’s a funny thing. Growing up on my parents’ farm, I got used to seeing dead animals - kittens, rats, pigs. But whenever I found a creature that was still living, I always picked it up and took it home.

Tiny, fragile baby birds that had fallen out of their nests, with their funny pink bodies, outsized heads and huge black eyes that had never been opened or seen. I’d put the bird in a box, filled with cotton wool, checking back all the time that it was still breathing.

All the while I believed that this time would be different, and it would be OK. Such delicate little things, much like hope itself.