Sonny Starr, punk drummer extraordinaire, has just paid the studio an early morning visit. Once again, he came to ask me for some advice.

'I've given up playing the drums, I've given up punk,' he paused for effect, 'and, you're not gonna believe this, but . . . I've formed a synthesizer trio.'

'That's totally amazing, Sonny,' I sniffed, 'and I'm incredibly happy for you, but I'll have to bid you farewell and get cracking upstairs.'

'You busy on a mix or something?'

'Not really.' Now it was my turn to effect a careful pause. 'Thing is, you see, after what you've just told me, I think I'm ever so slightly about to slip into a coma.'

He went on excitedly: 'We're called Sonny La Rue and the Modern Men. You're looking at the singer.'

'The singer? Where is she?'

'No, it's me. I'm the singer.' His smile was so full of pride I feared he was about to fall over.

'But you can't sing; you have a voice that sounds like a goat in distress.'

'That never stopped you, Davy.'

I had to admit, he did have a point.

He carried on as I was closing the door on him: 'I've just bought an old Prologue synth and I was wondering if you knew how to get a nice violin sound out of the thing.'

'Impossible,' I informed him. 'You just can't make a nice violin sound on a synthesizer; violins can't do it, why should a synth?'

I watched him wander confused and disappointed down the street towards the bus stop. Audrey brushed up against my leg. 'Looks like the weather is improving at last,' I told her.

Clouds that had earlier seemed a permanent feature in the winter sky were melting away to reveal a promising orange sun hanging low on the horizon. 'Come on, girl, time for a nice cup of Earl Grey.'