Born in 2019

Back in 2019, life had a sort of frantic, noisy energy that we didn’t realise we’d soon miss. It was the year of the ‘Fleabag’ finale—everyone was half-in-love with that Hot Priest—and you couldn’t walk into a pub without hearing Lewis Capaldi’s gravelly voice belting out 'Someone You Loved' from the jukebox. We spent the summer huddled around screens watching the Lionesses or biting our nails as Ben Stokes pulled off that miracle at Headingley, all while sipping pink gin or those trendy Aperol Spritzes that seemed to be in every hand.

The weather was a right old mix; we had that record-breaking heatwave in July where everyone sweltered on the Underground, yet the shops were still full of kids obsessed with Baby Shark and those blinking Fingerlings toys. We were all off to the cinema to see *Avengers: Endgame* or *1917*, arguing about Brexit over Sunday roasts, and blissfully unaware that "social distancing" wasn't even a phrase yet. It felt like we were always on the move, rushing for the 08:15 to Waterloo or squeezing into a crowded Greggs for one of those new vegan sausage rolls that everyone was talking about.

It was loud, it was messy, and it was brilliant.