"Chuck Klosterman," I say with the skewed intonation of the tipsy yet assured "will tell you it's the best album on the 1970s. I think he might have a point, although I'd be willing to listen to contrary opinions involving Led Zeppelin."
It is sunny. I am in a park with a crowd of people I have previously not met, and I am holding court. Expressions on the other side of the picnic blanket are largely glazed. It would be clear to anyone with less white wine inside them that none of these people are quite as passionate about Fleetwood Mac's Rumours as I. I have ingested just enough white wine and sunshine to feel (or rather, wholeheartedly believe) that they might just want to ditch the talk of weddings and holidays and discuss whether the opinions of one of Spin Magazine's finest are correct.
"I don't think I've heard it." Says one of my new companions.
"Ah!" I say, ignoring the idea that this was supposed to close the conversation "You probably just think you've not heard it. The great genius of Rumours is that everyone has somehow heard it subconsciously. A compelling argument for it's greatness, I think we can all agree. You all know Dreams, I bet...?"
I sing a few, disjointed bars.
"Didn't The Corrs sing that?" Says someone. I roll my eyes and draw breath for a stream of invective. There is giggling and I feel the conversation slipping down a rubbish nineties pop tangent as people try to recall how many sisters there were and whether they felt sorry for Jim.
"No, no," I grapple, "they did sing it but the point is..."
One girl turns to another.
"So then," she asks, "how was the honeymoon?"
I give up.