She painted ladybirds. She wasn’t the only one, naturally, there were far too many ladybirds for that to be practical, but she was certainly one of the more prolific. She always carried her brushes and paints with her – little pots of shellac in yellow, orange, and oriental red. Often in the middle of conversations she would wander off a little way, shepherd a small black beetle from a leaf or twig, and get to work with her brushes. At the time it mostly annoyed me, but after she left, I always felt a strange mix of nostalgia and regret when I recognised a ladybird as her handiwork.