It is January, 2012. I’ve been asked to play a solo session for RTE Radio in support of the band’s first single ‘Catalonian Love Song’. They would eventually add it to their playlist but for now they’ve very kindly asked me to make an appearance at RTE HQ in Donnybrook, Dublin for a couple tunes and an interview. Its a blisteringly warm Thursday and the air is alive with possibilities. I hop off the bus at Busarras and look at the address hastily scribbled in my little black book. ‘Dublin 4,’ it says. In my mood of Homeric detachment, I decide to forego taxi’s or buses in favour of a good walk. Its a beautiful day, says I to no-one in particular; and besides it’d be nice to see some of Dublin. And so it begins. I pass through Temple bar, on out past St Stephen’s green, approach Ranelagh and become irretrievably lost. I cut a bedraggled figure, sweating and cussing and dragging my acoustic behind me. I duck into a corner shop and pay 2 euro for a can of coke. I drink it feverishly and resume my search. I look everywhere but no cigar. I’d still be looking now were it not for the intervention of a friendly taxi driver. He seems like a mirage and I eye him warily half expecting the car to vanish just as i’m about to climb inside. ‘To Donnybrook.’ I puff. Its about another 15mins drive before we get there. I step gingerly as if supported by legs of delicate china and get a bit starstruck walking past the cafeteria when I spy someone that looks like Ray D’Arcy. The receptionist greets me with a smile and off I limp to a beautiful old live room. It’s huge and looks like something from Abbey Road populated by technicians in white overcoats. A massive ceiling, sixties furnishings, a load of vintage microphones, a shiny black grand piano. I’m delighted to be there and after exchanging pleasantries with the engineer I play ‘Plutonium’ and a solo piano version of ‘Catalonian Love Song’ which are recorded to be aired later. I also give a short interview in support of some Dublin gigs we have coming up. After its all over, they present me with some food vouchers to use in the cafeteria. This time the Ray D’Arcy lookalike has gone and I think about the trek back to the bus station. Will I attempt to walk it again? Have I got the cojones required for the job? Do I set off, enthusiastic and energised by my nutritious RTE lunch, skipping lightly with renewed zeal and vigor? Do I balls. I immediately hail a taxi. ‘To BusArras.’ I puff.