IT’S 4am and I’m in Stuttgart Airport.
A few hours ago, I was on stage with BB King and now security is giving my toothpaste a thorough once-over.
I’m on auto-pilot, half-asleep, too tired to be irritated by their efficiency and, with due diligence finally done to my soap bag, they wave me on back to Blighty.
Touchdown in Manchester – the wee small hours still – and I neck a flapjack and wash it down with a gallon of finest French roast before heading for the train to Liverpool, my final destination.
My fiance Jake and I are graduates of the Liverpool Institute of Performing Arts and we had been invited again as special guests to attend the annual graduation ceremony.
I arrived on time at the Philharmonic Hall and was met by Jake, who I hadn't seen in over a week.
Following a big hug, we were ushered into the green room where there was an assortment of tea and biscuits and – much to my disappointment – not a drop of anything remotely resembling alcohol.
I scanned the room intently, on the lookout for familiar faces and clocked master Will Young and none other than the school’s uber-famous patron Sir Paul McCartney.
Without the Dutch courage that follows a hearty imbibe of vino, I found myself slightly reluctant to launch into full-on mingle mode.
So I allowed myself one biscuit knowing I would be enjoying some quality nosh later on that night.
Last year, we ended up having dinner with among others, John Hurt and a famous Spanish composer called Luis Cobos.
I was about to cram an entire Rich Tea down my gullet when a tap on the shoulder from behind stayed my hand.
So tucking said biscuit into my pocket, I twirled round to hear: “Sandi come and get in the photo with Sir Paul and me.”
So there I was, sandwiched between Macca and his brother Mike, a professional photographer.
“How cool is this?”, I thought to myself as I gave my best smiling pose.
This quickly evolved into a feeling of dread as I suddenly felt very self-conscious, convinced I looked like a bloated, tired hag, having travelled for the last 12 hours from a blues tour with 12 men, where the only grooming I’d managed was in a toilet the size of my fridge.
After the photos had been taken, Macca turned to me and asked: “How's it all going then?”
“Great,” I replied. “Working on the third album, just supported BB King and Steve Winwood in Germany and getting hitched next year.”
News he seemed genuinely delighted to hear.
And so, after all the diplomas had been distributed and the speeches made, the auditorium’s lofty heights were filled with a medley of mortar boards, signalling the end of one chapter and the beginning of another for those on stage.
As I watched their bright young faces fill with joy and gladness, I was reminded of my own graduation.
It was one of the greatest moments of my life. The world was my oyster and the sky was the limit.
Oh, bring back those days of sweet innocence!
As Macca himself so wonderfully put it: “I believe in yesterday.”