I can hardly believe, wholly, that it’s been a year since I last went to a gig. This coming from the person who’s always at gigs. It’s been a bitter pill to swallow. After all, that means it’s somehow been a year since I toddled off to the Brudenell, arrived foolishly early and waited for the venue to be cleaned between the two shows Circa Waves had come to Leeds to play. The underside of my wrist was stamped instead of my hand, so that all the encouraged hand washing couldn’t wipe it off. People kept a bit more distance. Nobody dared to cough or sneeze. The mood was different. It felt like we were on the cusp of something threatening, but none of us knew what.

In turn, that means it’s also been a year since I legged it from the gym — a sweaty mess bravely donning sports shorts in March — to Crash Records in the morning to pick up my CD-and-ticket combo ahead of the evening’s gig. And oddly, that seems far more recent than it was. So, can it really, really be true that it’s been 365 days since I last went to a gig? Yeah, sadly, I guess it can.

Looking back, I’d gladly go through the will-they-won’t-they feeling of dodging blokes ferrying pints past my leather jacket in a packed crowd. I’d happily jostle through girls in the toilets to figure out who’s actually queuing and who’s just applying more mascara. And yes, I’d willingly risk hoisting my phone in the air at a jaunty angle for the prime shot of the band. It’s all part and parcel and, given that 365 full days have passed since I’ve been blessed with even the mere thoughts of those things, I’ll be pretty giddy when gigs are back in my life.