The train ride through the West Country, the one that I have done so many times now but where suddenly, somehow many villages, rivers and valleys were to be seen that I swore had not been there before. Reading John Banville’s The Sea, of which I have only consumed the first twenty-something pages but which, I am sure, I will enjoy greatly once I get into it. The man who sat next to me, who was supposed to be in the previous train, which however had broken down near Taunton, and who spoke with a sweet German accent. And listening to The Bartlebees, whose singer Patrik incidentally sings with a similar German accent. Is it nice that a band like The Bartlebees existed? And isn’t Patrik’s voice, despite – no: because of – the accent, one of indiepop’s sweetest? And does listening to them not make you want to wipe the dust off your record player and play all their records and singles and decide that life is good?