The heatwave was sweeping the Island, like the insomnia plague in Garcia’s Hundred Years, as people roamed the streets forgetting their roots and stripping supermarket freezer shelves bare, like locusts feeding on the remaining pre-wrapped scraps of civilised society.

Days spent baking in the sub-Saharan pressure cooker was taking its toll on the neighbourhood residents, electing to either go-with-the-flow and hang out the washing in swimwear with the morning pre-work cuppa, or take evasive action, holed up in designated parking spots, post 9 – 5 gristle, with the aircon and Heart FM on full blast.

Relaxing on the sofa, mentally flexing for the evenings big game reward for the masses and classes, I was wondering what effect this extreme solar activity might have on local publicans hoping to run taps dry like the Boston breweries benefiting from their own recent Tartan tea and tax invasion.

Either way, on the freewheeling wagon avoiding the lure of the beer taps, attempting to avoid contagion by the plague waiting beyond the four walls, so I made the executive decision to suspend all work related activity in preparation for the soccer spectacle under the New Jersey sunshine.