I was on my way home last night, on the final stages of my walk from the station to our house, when I heard music. It was a folky tune, a woman’s voice floating above a simple acoustic guitar. There was something about the quality of the sound that immediately made me think: “That’s not a recording. That’s live.”

Of course, I immediately scolded myself for having had such a stupid thought. I was on a quiet residential street. The truth would obviously be more prosaic: an open window on a warm summer evening and a good quality stereo cranked up to high.

I started looking around for an open window, and then I saw the music’s source: up above me, on a roof-top terrace, was a group of people who included in their midst a man with a guitar and a woman singing. And the thing is…

They were good. Really good.

And then it hit me. This sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen. Not in real life, not in lives not lived in beer commercials selling a bullshit lifestyle that doesn’t exist and never did. But there they were.

I like living in Brighton.