Bong. Bong. (etc)

There are few more emotive sounds in life than the 6pm Big Ben bongs ringing out on Radio 4.

Like the stentorian laugh of a kindly, debauched uncle who is strong and steady yet knows the pleasure to be had from deep, dark vibration, those resonant notes beckon weary workers to snuggle into the velvet folds of evening's cloak, delicately tickled by the tasselled fringe of anticipation. No manmade mayhem can muddle my motion, Ben soothes: the downtime, the clowntime, the sliponyoursmileandyourgowntime, is incontrovertibly here. Come into my club, nestle against the antimacassar, and let me bring you olives and gin.

Sadly, uncle has gone on his annual restorative to Switzerland for a brisk rub down by nanny, so, in the place of last year's birdsong, the PM posse are preceding the pips with listener's Sound Of Summer clips instead. No comparison, but perfectly jolly nonetheless.

This is my current sound of summer. Turn it up loud, saunter proud through the crowd and mellow down, pussycat.