We have too few of those moments, when we feel undeniably alive, when we are weightless in our troubled lives.

An hour on the weekend is not enough. An hour when I leave the heat of the midday sun and enter a shadowy forest, where I race my mountain bike along the single track snaking amongst the trees, narrowly missing rocks and tree roots, eventually pushing the bike through a river in flood, but ultimately miscalculating a turn and crashing into a tree.

The bike hit the muddy track. Somewhere before that point I jumped off and continued running without thinking that I ought to jump off and continue running. I acted on instinct. Every bit of me was alert.

I managed to stop running and turn back sporting an idiotic grin. Like I saved the world.

I can recreate that feeling of being completely and utterly alive, whilst sitting absolutely still on my couch, on a lonely school night, by listening to Florence and The Machine.

Long live Florence Welch.