I was seven when I saw my first frog. My dad called me into the garden of our terrace house to say he had found something near the shed that I’d like. There sat a pocket-sized gold monster with a triangular back, and eyes like a cat but without the “I’m going to kill you” stare.
My dad, a wizard with tools, quickly knocked up a hutch. Sadly, the frog had to be freed a few months later when we moved house.
