Up against the wall on an empty street, the cold cutting through my leather gloves and wool cap. I’m on my way to the job, the tie round my neck pinching, my earbuds blaring the Pogues and a last drag of the cigarette before throwing it to the gutter. Across the way, they’ve started the fire in the pub. I wish I was there with you again, drinking coffee and pints and watching a Friendly. We’d listen in silence to the announcer’s smooth call – the thunder and echo of the chants – and we’d be close again.