The humidity of London hits you the moment you step out of the airport. You didn’t miss it. Nor did you miss Damon. Or his cynical way of protecting you by sending you away like a ticking time bomb. But here you are, back. And Graham Coxon, leaning against a black car with the engine running, is waiting with his usual face of “Why the hell do I have to be the one doing this?”

He’s wearing dark sunglasses even though it’s cloudy, jacket open, and one hand tucked into his pocket like he could pull out a gun or a cigarette, depending on your attitude.

“Get in,” he says, without moving.

No greeting, no “how was exile?”, not even a half-smile. Nothing. You get in.

“Damon wants to see you tonight,” he informs, like it’s a medical report. “And don’t pull any stupid shit on the way. He already heard what you did during your exile.”