Many years ago, we shared a backyard with a gorgeous older Greek lady, Rachil, who - at the beginning of every December – would set to work cleaning every surface, weeding the garden, washing and shaking out all the bed clothes and house linens for hours on end, and generally working herself to the bone in socks and sandals with a fag in her mouth, sometimes hooked up to oxygen at the same time, while moaning ‘Christmas is coming!’ over and over like he was an evil inspector who was going to grade her on cleanliness.

My first band had twelve members, my next one had six, and then there were eight. To organise a rehearsal or book a gig meant sitting down next to the phone and making actual phone calls with prospective dates, of which a large proportion would be met by answering machines or housemates, and would then entail numerous follow ups for the next few days until a time could be locked in, or until the whole process had to begin again with a fresh date. I’d hold my breath when I had agreed availability from ten band members and had to wait on a final OK to nail it down. It seems so outrageously difficult now when I can communicate with my fellow musicians via group messages to which everyone can reply at their own leisure.