The heat hit like a wall the moment I stepped outside, the kind of shimmering, impossible hundred‑degree blaze that makes a man question every life choice that involves wool, lining, and a tie. Yet there I was, stubborn as ever, armouring myself in a suit and setting off toward the river. The old bridge stood there like a patient sentinel, watching me park up and wait for my lift as though this were all part of some ancient ritual.

The designated driver arrived with the cheerfulness of a man who has already accepted his fate. He rolled down the window, grinned, and declared that his air conditioning had died a heroic but final death. And so, like two pilgrims in a mobile sauna, we set off toward Leeds, me bound for a Masonic Hall I had never seen, to join a Masonic Order I had never entered. A new chapter, a new initiation, a new adventure.

It was strangely delightful to be a candidate again. There is a particular humility in standing at the threshold, waiting to be admitted, reminded that every journey begins with that first symbolic step. Even better was being ceremonially kicked out during the Installation later. I genuinely cannot recall the last time I had to leave the room for an Installation, the act itself felt like a warm echo from decades past. A nostalgic tug, a reminder of younger days when everything was new and every ceremony felt like stepping into myth.

Afterwards, the day softened into something wonderfully ordinary. We stopped for Chinese on the way home, the kind of unplanned feast that becomes the perfect punctuation mark at the end of a long, symbolic sentence. The meal was fantastic, rich, comforting, exactly what the day needed and it closed the adventure with a sense of quiet satisfaction.

A blazing morning, a broken aircon, a new Order, a nostalgic exile, and a glorious Chinese banquet. A great day, woven together with heat, humour, and a touch of ceremony.