Just roused the neighbours with my annual Jets at Dawn observance.
"The calendar said first of August."
It does indeed.
I've been doing this [every year I remember, which isn't all of them] for about 40 years.
It reminds me of summers past, loves lost; a general melancholy, but tempered by that kind of "England between the wars" reminiscence, of innocence, cricket on the village green - something I don't think ever truly existed but seems to linger as some kind of odd 'racial memory' - probably based on old black & white movies rather than reality.
Every year I ask myself, "Would it have been better if that guitar had been in tune?"
Every year, the answer is, "No".
I'm normally very sensitive to tuning, but I really like the fragility it gives to the overall track.