Under an intoxicating insomnia of full moon fever, I found myself on the stroke of midnight waiting for deep slumber somewhere in the shadows of her illuminated face, as she smiled and serenaded lunar tour cyclers and night watchmen alike on her passage through the dark sky.

While multi-tasking on final evening chores before turning in, synchronising the stacking of the dishwasher with military precision alongside half-hearted toothbrushing, I thought I caught sight of a free-floating unidentified craft through the kitchen window where the moon and stars should be.

Sitting in the dark, chores done, house asleep, scrolling for a soundtrack with the sense of this being no pedestrian night, a memory of a former love washed in with the moonlight.

Of an English rose, cut down in her prime, who would burn down a thumb-sized block of hash while painting wall murals for Britain during full moon episodes like these.

And, as the whir of the dishwasher cut out, the world suddenly plunged into silence in the slipped stream of the soundtrack, facing a long night of reflection and remembrance, so I took the executive decision to go outside and search for the hole in the moon.