I am a morning person, always have been. Late to bed, early to rise even on Sundays, for hundreds of years now. I get just two holidays in the year, August 15 and January 26.

Some years ago, I would arrive at your doorstep, no baggage attached. No glossy leaflets placed within my sheets — for some Dial-A-Pizza joint offering you discounts on their Mushroom and Olive eight-inchers. Or some builder selling you the promise of ‘Venice in the heart of Vashi’. You didn’t have to experience the Herculean effort of getting to my headlines, battling oddly sized, quarter-page ads.