I’m seven years old, dressed in a blazer, shorts, shirt and tie. My mum’s at the wheel of the car, a blur of deep green, rain-soaked countryside drifting by the window. We pass a police station, its walls tall and grey and topped with razor wire. There are watch towers at every corner.

We approach the airport. I see soldiers clutching rifles. Armoured cars. We stop by a security checkpoint. A mirror on a trolley is passed under the vehicle and then my mum is given the all-clear. She navigates a chicane of concrete slabs which slow traffic to a crawl. Finally we park up and fetch my bag from the boot. I walk, feet like lead, towards the terminal building. I can see police in blue uniforms by the entrance. Perhaps they’ll halt me in my tracks. Arrest me.

I may be a little boy. I may not understand the complexities or dangers of life in Northern Ireland or why it’s safer for the son of a British army officer to go to school in England. But I don’t care. I don’t want to get on the plane. I want to stay at home.