Earlier this year, we played a secret gig in the middle of the French countryside, in somebody’s garage. It was booked as their friend’s birthday present - and we had a huge feast of French food (the boys ate lots of sausages!) and the most perfect rosé wine and conversation afterwards.

However… we had to drive to Berlin the next day. We had an 18 hour van drive straight to the venue, on two hours sleep - I had one coffee, about 14 hours into the journey. I was shaking so much that I instantly spilt the coffee all over myself. I screamed. 

To my right, my boyfriend silently handed me his cup of coffee.

*

It is well known that the most important morning event on tour (or in life) is the cup of coffee, especially for me (and Tom - Tom can’t deny his cup of strong, black caffeinated goodness, either.)

(Card by Gemma Correll)

This is one of my favourite books. My copy is very battered - it was already creased with love when I first bought it at a charity shop, a few years ago.

I remember sitting on my bed at home whilst my family went out, sitting on my bed as the sky turned to night, and sitting on my bed as the milk man clinked a bottle on the doorstep at 5am. All the while, this book was firmly in my hands. I miss that sort of book - the one that becomes your friend and foe for a solid period of time. I haven’t read enough this year.

The Secret History is at times frightening, but with the most beautiful prose. For years afterwards, the characters haunted me, and I saw their personalities in those of a lot of people I met afterwards.

For a long time, this was a favourite quote of mine:

“Everywhere I looked was something beautiful - Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels - a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those little Byzantine churches that are so plain on the outside; inside, the most paradisal painted eggshell of gilt and tesserae.”

- Sophie