Whilst working quietly in this attractively Bernard Nevill-esque lounge—with its eclectic selection of low leather chairs, cowhide stools and timber floors strewn with patchwork rugs—I’ve never overheard so much chatter about ‘what God was telling me’. If I was a local evangelist, I’d have put my celestial mobile on Do Not Disturb by now.

I’ve tried on three occasions now to endure—without breaking a sweat and clambering for balance—Pärt’s musical setting of St Patrick’s Breastplate, ‘The Deer’s Cry’. Admittedly, I’ve only conducted the experiment within the auditory confines of a good set of Sennheiser headphones, but even so, it’s only four minutes of music. I’ve tried focusing on how much I despise slavish religious texts, but no joy: within two minutes it floors me.

Battling out the odds on the US election with my brother, in Busan. 🎲

Social media’s fantastic for curating your public image. By the end of the night, I’ll have my pants around my ankles in the Latin Quarter, clinging onto half a bottle of gin and dancing like @Luke Reynolds. And all you lot will see is me looking like a smug git with a bottle of Champagne. ✌🏻

Heartbroken by Jarrett in Vienna this evening; stepping out of Gesellschaft I looked like Marco Rubio after a session with Donald Trump. 🏊 I thought I’d already experienced every musical emotion. Wrong again.

Breathtaking architecture. Beguiling historiography. Terrible coffee. ☕️