It’s 2003.

Heather and I are newly together, experiencing the fresh wonder of one another but secure in a comfort I had hitherto expected only to experience with an old friend. We lived together in a small, poorly converted garage. The split between the wall and the vinyl-covered cement was a highway for ants, and our kitchen consisted of but a meagre electric range. It was also the hallway between the bedroom, bathroom, and exit.

On sunny spring days she would kneel in the garden for hours, fussing with the soil and plants as a gleeful escape from the trials of studying and our concerns from the future. Her curly brown hair would tint red in the bright sun, and a smile would creep across my face as the warm comfort of being overcame me.

When my grandmother passed away I resolved to retain something of hers to remember her by; a token of some kind that would link strongly to my fleeting memories of her. I came away with the watch she hung on the wall and which I was deeply fascinated by, and her enormous hi-fi stereo which had more in common with dining room furniture than a radio.

It played A Century of Fakers, spinning a vinyl copy of my first Belle And Sebastian album. Those were beautiful days.