Once at a boutique music festival, I’d been walking along with Tyler when she emitted a neat curve of projectile vomit onto the grass in front of her and just carried on walking, resuming what she was saying exactly where she’d left it, barely missing a beat. I don’t think she’d even wiped her mouth. It was an adept expulsion - not so impressive for the twenty people sitting at picnic benches outside a food stand, wooden cutlery held aloft, unable to finish their falafel. We’d christened it the ‘walk and puke’. It was the epitome of styling out. I wasn’t up to it. All I wanted to do was lie down.