Going through stacks of CDs, selling and recycling, trying to live more in the present and less surrounded by the spoils – or the detritus – of the past. I use the rule that if I haven’t felt the hem of a CD for a year, it has to go. I reason to myself that if I really like a song, I should know it so well that I can play it in my mind any time I want. So I don’t even need to hang onto albums I actually like. In theory. Some albums I say fond farewells to, some I hurl out with disgust and embarrassment.

In the booklet for a 20th anniversary Style Council compilation, Paul Weller comments on how he feels about the songs with the benefit (or detriment) of two decades’ hindsight.

“It Just Came To Pieces In My Hands is about how ego can be more destructive than drink or drugs. Ego takes you away from what you should be really going for, gets you sidetracked.”

All very laudable. Deliciously, he then adds:

“You don’t hear lyrics like that these days.”