This afternoon, alone in the quiet band room, I picked up my clarinet, instinctively played that bit from Jericho I had memorised from camp, and realised (apart from the Good grief, do I miss NCO camp! sentiment) how it is that I always find myself drifting back to the things that are familiar to me and that bring me the most comfort.

We had band practice today, no matter that the rain was drumming a hard beat on the roof somewhere above us or that somewhere else in school the dancers were dancing up their own storm, for those three hours I felt - as I sometimes do - that the entire world belonged to us and with us.

How do you explain something like passion? I remember a conversation I had not too long ago, about passion and how it defined itself, and I remember saying, I think my passion is the written word. And I still believe that is my greatest passion - but what, then, about music and about being in the band? What then, would you call the rush through me when I hold my clarinet, warm in my hands, or when I'm sitting, eyes shut, feeling my skin tingle just to be amidst all that motion in the music?