Here’s Scarlett, in the garden of a friend’s house in London on a sunny summer morning, the kind of mornings that are unusual in England.

Scarlett is twelve years old (“thirteen in November” she tells me), and is trying to understand the world around her. She asks questions about everything, all the time.

I tell her that I want to ask her a question, and I ask her why she’s called “Scarlett”, and what the name means, and if it comes from anywhere in particular, and she says:

“No it’s just a stupid name my parents chose because they liked it.

It doesn’t mean anything.” I wonder if her parents named her after the heroine of a favourite film, perhaps, but then again, I know her dad and this sounds unlikely. I think they probably chose it just because they liked the sound of it.