You know how sometimes you go for a run and it feels like you’re wearing a Victorian diving suit over the top of Neil Armstrong’s moon-landing outfit, and there’s someone driving a few paces in front of you pouring a mixture of tar, treacle and Bird’s custard in your path?

Yeah. Just had one of those. Utterly grim.

But – but!

That brief I’d been struggling with all morning and had almost given up hope of solving?

Cracked it, mate.

I’m a wheezing, punctured football of a man. But at least I now have words.