The squirrels were looping round the beech tree where I once buried the bones of my memoir, like rodent crack vermin chasing natural highs, in the local park flooded with dogs walking their owners under the grey slate rooftop sky of a hazy Sunday morning.

Bleary-eyed, with a headful of pressure of a man in motion, caught in the thrill of the chase, I was counting down to book launch day, after being rudely awoken in the crack of dawn by a pair of seagulls scrapping outside the bedroom window.

The dogs, of all breeds, proportions, and Cruft’s categories, were gathering for pow-wows, or meet, sniff, and greets besides the tree clusters and chalky white football pitch markings, forcing their sleepwalking owners into mandatory, pigeon-pecking conversations with fellow owners.

And looking down, with my own rendition of ‘Parklife’ queued up, then looping like an earworm of imagination, with a crooked back and endless download of ‘things to do’ scrolling like cryptic code before my eyes, this obsession of a debut publication was there in my hands, scorching the palms like a hot coal from the fire.