This weekend was rainy. It was one of those early-winter days in the UK where the skies are a deep unending grey. The air was moist with what the English call ‘mizzle’; a misting rain that soaks you to the bone in a matter of minutes. Just as I was about to enter into another English habit of moaning about the weather, my eye caught a picture stuck to our fridge. It was an image of a six-year-old me and my two younger sisters, sat at our Grandparent’s table on a sundrenched Colorado summer day. The picture had been taken a three months before we had moved to England.