Every year I took a holiday. I went to Florence. There’s this cafe on the banks of the Arno. Every fine evening I would sit there and order a Fernet Branca. I had this fantasy that I would look across the tables and I would see you there with a wife, and maybe a couple of kids. You wouldn’t say anything to me, nor me to you. But we’d both know that you’d made it. That you were happy.