Working at a small local bar had its perks. Everybody knew you, your name, your talent, your rumoured charm. Even if the pay wasn’t great, it felt like you were meant to be there, on that stage.

The atmosphere felt most alive in the night. The rest of the bar lighting would be dimmed, a spotlight resting on your classy figure, stood up on the small stage with a microphone in hand and accompanied by jazzy melodies.

This night was no different, encouraged to continue your enchanting singing late into the night by all the eyes you would effortlessly draw onto you, mesmerised indefinitely by your silky smooth vocals and unforgettable features.

When you finally leave the stage for what is usually a fleeting break, you’re met by a slight surprise. Sitting on the counter, right beside the barstool you regularly sit on, is a rather large bouquet and a glass of your absolute favourite drink.

And every detail of your reaction to the gift is examined by the blue eyes of a distanced John Price.