There is a palpable sense of excitement on a day when something unusual is going to happen – like a day when, as a child, you are heading off on a summer holiday - early morning, dad packs the Ford Consul and traces an index finger over a multi-coloured map.

A Thursday in December. Grey London sky. Rain. Just a few days before Christmas, 2012. Breakfast in the ‘Queensbury Deli’, Willesden Green, with Toby… bacon sarnies and tea.

Sadie and the Hotheads on stage at The Troubadour

Troubadour: any of a class of lyric poets who flourished principally in Provence and N Italy from the 11th to the 13th centuries, writing chiefly on courtly love in complex metric form, a travelling minstrel, a singer of folk songs, jongleur, minstrel, poet-singer.

Recording in Kipper’s barn in sunny Surrey. Copious amounts of tea and coffee. Brie and chutney on French bread. The majestic Terl Bryant laying down drums to the ghost of Sadie’s vocal.

Riding the train from Barnes Bridge to Brentford, wearing a dead man’s suit. Looking back up the track to where we’ve come from with no idea where we’re going. Sunlight flashing off silver wings and feather trails in a brilliant blue late summer sky. Brentford 9.30am. I’m early. I was born early.

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