There was a reassuring ring of Time having been unspoilt, having not moved in the decade since I last dialled the number that was scrawled out on a rough piece of paper, torn at the edges, almost in the shape of a child’s jagged, over physical idea of what shape an island lost in some storm tossed sea should be like. Hurriedly torn from a freshly bought notebook, the lack of thought in the action that would ultimately lead to the early demise of the re-pulped paper, by my mother as she passed me as we exchanged a Christmas Card on the train, the ragged island now sat comfortably on my desk before me, pride of place for a phone call I never truly wanted to make.