It’s the most wonderful time of the year. No, not that, the other one. The one where it’s T-shirt weather in the manor, you’ve dismissed the notion of wearing sunscreen in a foolhardy act of defiance, and there’s no way you can have too many ‘festival strength’ ciders. Scrumpy? No I’m not, leave me alone.
When the drunken haze starts to lift and you awake looking like a cross between an anaesthetised Troll doll and a post-spray Donald Trump, take a moment to stop and smell the roses because, hayfever notwithstanding, Britain is in bloom.