Picture an event: A party in an ornate hall. Champagne and canapes gripped by the elegant fingers of people gathered. They're conversing in that most skittish of way you default to when you can never quite get comfortable. There's an itch to get away, to go somewhere quieter; deeper. One of the people breaks away. She's bored of the noise and idle chatter. She walks down a corridor, drawn by an ambient sound. She can't place it. A trumpet travelling from the ether? A saxophone? It's haunting, but she's transfixed. She's found herself positioned between the sunset of her weekend and the sunrise of her gloomy impending work week. She keeps wandering, following the sound. All the way to the TYC Sunday Soirée.