This is a summer created not from the clearest of blue skies and the yellowest of daffodils; nor is it mysteriously pulled from a random magician’s hat or simply plucked out of thin air.
This is a summer lovingly conjured from a boulevard of broken dreams, the thrilling remains of two sparkling autumns, and the cherished fragility of second guesses.
And so we have to ourselves one beautiful day of sun and a 3am stroll in our own secret garden; oh, how the mighty have fallen.
So welcome back, Mr Rice, Mr Ayer and band. I am mad that you paint me like I am an age-old failure, but more importantly, I think I have become so because you have turned me into a born-again believer.