Inspiration could strike at the most unlikely of moments – during the annual clipping of toenails, while mulching the rhododendrons, gazing in awe at the Screwfix catalogue. As a true devotee of his art, none of these demanding scenarios prevented Cody Kavanaugh from dropping everything and immediately instructing Siri to make a note. He had learned painfully that even in the white heat of creation it was still important to speak slowly and clearly enough that his words would be transcribed faithfully. The anguish of trying to decipher ‘backbeat, the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out’ as anything other than AI gobbledegook still tormented him. Still, he had persisted, and had eventually crafted what he was sure would one day be recognised as an anthem for all time. His only nagging doubt was over the payoff of the chorus – ‘and after all, you’re my Bowling Ball’, which he suspected didn’t convey the gravitas he was striving for. For the neophyte songwriter, bathos was a constant danger, and in his more honest moments of self-examination he had to admit that he had fallen into it’s trap more often than he liked.

Taking his inspiration from such timeless lyrical visionaries as David Morrissey and Noel Gardner, the stellar forces behind the bands The Joneses and Fanta, Cody had spent many happy teenage hours idly visualising himself picking up his latest Grammy, or at least an Ivor Novello award, before a hushed audience of his would-be peers, emanating a pleasing aroma of naked jealousy. Surely it was only a matter of time before his unique talents were recognised, even his mother said so.

On this particular morning, Cody was deeply engaged in tweaking his list of commands for his Bluetooth sock-warmer when he felt that familiar jolt as the muse settled on his knotted shoulders.

He was reflecting, as he laboured, on one of the familiar refrains of modern life in any self-respecting bourgeois household, when he realised how easily it lent itself to a lyric - ‘I would go out tonight but I haven't got a thing to wear’. Astonished at his own powers of invention, he overlooked the quotidian nature of that ‘thing’ and set about thumbing further gems into the keyboard of his phone. Although he generally eschewed the autobiographical in favour of more everyman perspectives, he felt that this time he could reveal more of himself and tap into what he was most familiar with. Wasn’t the accepted wisdom that you should write what you know? With that in mind he knew that the song would ultimately have to be called ‘This Handsome Man’. His heart almost burst with pride as he continued to sketch out this eulogy to his favourite person, finishing with a repetitive flourish of ‘he knows so much about mood swings’.

Elated by this outpouring, his reverie was interrupted by an insistent pounding on the front door. His Ring doorbell had ceased to function only the day before so he was reduced to opening the door blind. Before him stood three sinister burly figures, clad head-to-toe in dark military garb, faces concealed. Grabbing him roughly by the arms, they dragged him down the steps toward the waiting vehicle. ‘But why?’ he spluttered. No-one spoke, but as he was thrust into the open door one of the assailants handed him an official form which bore the title ‘Artistic License – Lapsed’.