The smell of wet wool and diesel hit me walking past the old bus depot on Effingham Road — suddenly I'm seven again, wedged between my mother's knees on the Number 52, her surgical textbooks clicking against my ribs as she recited anatomy terms to distract me from the motion sickness. She'd quiz me on Latin roots between stops: *sternum, femur, parietal* — bribed me with Wine Gums from the newsagent at Castle Square if I got five right. Never told her I swallowed them whole just to keep the game